


The Blood Moon

by TheRogueLibrarian



Series: An angel's curse and its far off consequences [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 'Cause that's an ominous as hell title, Abused Harry, Character Bashing, Child Training - Draco's family is fucked up, Complete, Dark, Dissociation, Draco Malfoy is Bad at Feelings, Draco is a lovesick puppy and a territorial wolf as well, Draco is still kinda homicidal, Eating Disorders, Evil Dumbledore cools off a bit, F/F, F/M, First Person Chapter Titles, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Fourth Year, Harry doesn't know how to respond, Harry-centric, I guess that makes Draco a serial killer lol, It's called "The Toll", M/M, Muggle card games, Murder, Occlumency, POV Third Person, Past Child Abuse, Plot Twists, Restrictive Eating and Mentions of Bulimia, Revenge list, SEQUEL COMING SOON!, Second in the series, Secret Crush - except kinda not because it's so obvious, Secret club, Self Harm, Sequel to The Boggart, Slytherin Harry Potter, Suicidal Harry, Triwizard Tournament, Underage Kissing, With A Twist, eek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2019-06-05 04:44:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 38,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15162944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRogueLibrarian/pseuds/TheRogueLibrarian
Summary: Sequel to The Boggart! Harry has to learn how to survive the never ending torture of not being allowed to die, and the slightly ironic tournament that wants to kill him just as much as he does. Draco has to learn how to flirt. And Neville has to learn the whimsical ways of a certain Little Moon.





	1. When life sucks for me - but what's changed?

**Author's Note:**

> Vote for who flirts with Harry:
> 
> Cedric & Victor- 4  
> Fleur & Victor-1  
> All three striving for a polyamorous (sorry that I spelt it as polygamous before, since I searched it up and it means a totally different thing) relationship-1
> 
> A/N: Readers! Yay! Sorry if its a bit short, but I've got to try and work myself up a bit for this. The sequel has finally begun, not that I really know when I will be able to keep updating, so sorry about that. I know it has been a while (cough cough *3 months* cough cough) but I've been writing other stuff and I thought for a while I might have lost my inspiration for this story.
> 
> Why am I rambling?
> 
> So... yeah. It looks like Cedric and Viktor will be flirting with our suicidal protagonist at some point in the future. (lol I should do it when Viktor is at the ball with Hermione and he says “Yo Harry, you fine!”) Sorry. That probably won't happen. I might make it an omake or something because I can't seem to stop laughing.
> 
> I'm very tired.
> 
> Really I've been sleeping badly for weeks. But. Anyway. Thanks for reading this, it means a lot that some people are actually interested in my work, and thanks if you've reviewed the prequel to this or 'The Boggart'. Reviews make my heart sing and soul soar. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> btw multiple belt scenes were intentional, in case anyone wonders about it in future.

Harry was still suicidal.

 

It was like an itch at the back of his brain, a constant skin shedding itch which took its toll on him. Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, it followed him around like a back seat driver, called for him to just end it and go back to that wonderful place he had been before. The wonderful feeling that was there, the wonderful touch of an angel's skin as she promised him the world.

 

Harry had visited the afterlife. He had known for sure that such a place existed. He had felt what it was like. He knew that death was nothing to be afraid of, that there was _something_ after his heart fell silent and brain stopped its continuous buzzing. Harry _knew_...

 

And being alive was such a torture to him. For he knew that there was something better out there. Something which he was barred from reaching. Something greater than life that he had only touched once, once for so short a time, and then wrenched back into the painful reality of _life_.

 

He had the sick thought of killing all of his friends so that they could experience it. So that they could understand why he wanted to die so badly. To end all of the suffering that had been in his life. So that Harry could leave it all behind him. He wanted to bring them with him.

 

He wondered what crime he had committed to be fate's chosen one. To be singled out like he was to defeat a monster. Why was it that they thought, that the angel thought, that he would want this? That Harry would want to return to such a cruel world? He knew he had friends, and an insane godfather, and perhaps a future boyfriend, who he couldn't even stand to look at for whenever Draco looked at him he could only see himself as a victim.

 

He had people. Harry did. They cared, so deeply for him, but it was maddening that they couldn't understand how broken he was. Even Neville, Neville who shared his own past with Harry, in the hope that Harry could trust him with his secrets. Even Neville, _his_ Neville, his best friend, couldn't see how much it pained him to breathe every second.

 

Harry had slit his wrists almost ten times, jumped off the Astronomy Tower twice, tried to drown himself in the lake only to be saved by the Giant Squid. He had tried to learn how to cast the killing curse, and when he had failed had cast a number of 'light' spells to kill himself. Like _Wingardium Leviosa_ to lift himself and drop himself again and again and again until his bones cracked and he bled deep crimson blood onto the thin battered mattress with Neville sleeping only five steps away.

 

Harry trekked into the Forbidden Forest late at night, left himself open to be opened, only to find that no creature could kill him. That he was _alive_ through all of it.

 

Harry wondered if someone could get addicted to pain, since he tried to die so often in such painful ways.

 

His eyes opened, he gasped, sweat dripping down into his eyes and making them burn. Harry didn't dare scream, didn't ever dare scream.

 

Phantom hands followed him out of dreams. Whispered promises snuck their way into his ears, cemented his value, and cooed to him to accept the everlasting darkness. A promise was so much worse than a threat, for a promise was meant to come through, a promise couldn't be empty, a promise was concrete.

 

Harry had to remind himself that they were dead.

 

His uncle was dead. No hands could find him in his nightmares. No shouts could wrap their way on his door and force him. No welts would appear on his skin. No ghost would come and search for him, for muggles didn't have ghosts. Harry would not wake up one morning, aching _inside_ , and know with a horrified certainty that he was completely ruined. That the blood between his legs was the last of his innocence, gone, just like that, on the whim of a drunk man who longed to break him.

 

Harry almost couldn't breathe.

 

And he had to close his eyes and grip his bed sheets tightly, just to stop the blackness from swallowing him whole. To stop himself from simply going back to sleep and never waking, from lying in that bed forever and letting everything that wanted to happen happen. Harry had to grit his teeth and clench his jaw, to open his eyes and face the world that morning.

 

He pulled the blanket with him, feeling lingering doubt that he would be safe with so few clothes on. Even though Luna was there, precious Little Moon, living with him and Sirius, he felt the tight twist of the knife in his heart.

 

Could Sirius be trusted?

 

His godfather had seemed like more of a pet up and until then, spending most of his time as a dog, and Harry had gotten used to that. He had familiarised himself with the feel of dirty black hair to comb a hand through and the gentle growls in his godfather's sleep.

 

He had forgotten that inside that dog was a man. A large man who might not be completely sane. And Harry had to wonder what would happen to him that vacation, and whether it would be like so many in the past.

 

He tried to tell himself it wouldn't as he entered the grimy bathroom connected to his room. He tried to tell himself that Sirius was not like his uncle, or even Dudley, as he clicked the lock shut and walked soundlessly to the glass frame of the shower. Harry tried to convince himself that Sirius was Sirius, not a true man, for Askaban had taken that for him, and instead he was a dog-man, who only really wanted family.

 

Family, the word left an acrid taste of rotten wax on his tongue. He only knew the taste from when he had asked his aunt so long ago if she were his mother, and she had forced the candle she was throwing away into his mouth, as if he had swore and the candle were soap.

 

Harry breathed deeply, pulling out his wand from where it was always with him, and casting a privacy spell on the window of the bathroom, and the door. Sirius had told him that the Fidelius Charm, and an innumerable amount of wards were on the house, since his grandfather had been a security nut, but he didn't trust it completely.

 

He didn't trust _him_ completely.

 

Harry paused, stared at the shower door for a long time, knowing he needed to open it and turn the handle. He hadn't had a shower in almost a week and a half. He hadn't truly connected with anything for almost a week, ever since the finality and oppressive nature of his living arrangements set in.

 

It wasn't that the house was grimy and filled with a sticky dark aura that made him shiver. It wasn't even that Sirius' mother often screamed at them, for some reason having a soft spot for Luna. It wasn't that Harry spent most of his days cleaning up the rooms, making sure Sirius didn't throw everything away, and barely saw the sunlight.

 

No.

 

It was as if everything was settling inside him, like sediments in a river bank. All of his problems had swirled around him, out of his mind, repressed by Occlumency and meditation, distracted by time with his friends and plots against the headmaster. Now his mind had settled, barriers had come falling down, all but one of his friends had left to their own house.

 

Harry had come to realise the magnitude of everything that had happened to him, everything that had overwhelmed him, all the pressing issues of despair which tried to suffocate him on a daily basis. Everything was... Flashing by him too fast and too painfully. He often felt like his heart was beating too fast, that there was a sense of impending doom about him as if everything were about to do wrong, he felt weak and dizzy, and tight pains in his chest.

 

Sometimes Harry could close his eyes and make it all stop. Make everything stop chasing him down into the depths of self hatred and anger. He felt so... so... angry at the world, for everything it had put him through. Harry had set beds on fire in his rage, had shattered all the fine china, had made the wards shake in his fury. He had smashed mirrors, cut his hands to pieces, added to his already many scars.

 

Sirius was looking for a light ritual to get rid of all of his scars. Harry didn't want them gone. He wanted to see them, for them to remind him, so that he could remember what happened even if Dumbledore tried to mess with his mind. They had tried to get him to take down the glamours in Snape's former therapy. Harry was glad he had taken up his Lordship, and hadn't been forced to continue going.

 

On his first day there he had tracked down all the belts in the house and burnt them in a big pile. Luna had danced and chanted around the bonfire, they had danced together like madman while it rained, and Sirius had watched from the window inside, stuck in his own mind for that afternoon.

 

Harry, on the first day there, had tracked down all the belts in the house, because every time he saw one of them they reminded him of his uncle's belt and caused his breathing to become harsh and his chest to hurt in the way it hurt so often now. He had burnt them all in a big pile, so as to try and kill them like his family had tried to kill him. Luna had seen the sorrow in his eyes and had danced and chanted, with him, around the bonfire, no matter how many times he flinched.

 

Harry had tracked down all the belts in the house, within the first half hour he arrived. He didn't know why, just that he had to, and so he did, so as not to be consumed by the ultimate darkness inside of him. He had taken the fifth belt into the bathroom with him, and had used the sharp silver buckle to cut his arm open, wondering if he did so that if he would finally die.

 

Luna came into the bathroom, saw his cut arm, and did not look shocked, not even when his arm healed itself on its own. She said nothing, simply took his other hand which did not have a pile belts in it, and searched with him around the house for more.

 

That evening, when they burned the belts together, so that Harry would not cut himself with them again, she took his hands, so that he would not try to set himself on fire. Luna danced with him until he was tired enough not to try again, and did not say anything to the dissociated state that Sirius was in from his mother's insults.

 

Harry, as soon as he arrived, tracked down all the belts in the house, because the first belt he had seen had sent him into a memory of his time at Privet Drive. Harry, had stood there, meek and pathetic as he was, back there, and had simply shut his eyes soundlessly, waiting for tears to come.

 

He did not dance at first, when Luna asked him to, for he didn't feel like he could move, for he still felt like he was waiting for the pain to come. Eventually he did, trying to remember that his family was dead and he didn't have to go back there. Trying to remember that it was Luna's hands in his grip, not his uncle's holding his hands above his head as he...

 

Harry took a breath, stepped into the shower, and turned on the scolding hot water. Hoping it would burn away the memories in his mind, hoping that if he scrubbed himself enough, poured enough crusted soap on his skin and shampoo in his hair, that he would be able to scrub off those phantom hands which he could still feel, brushing fingertips like knives across his skin.

 

Harry walked downstairs, smelling cleaner than he had in a long time, not expecting anyone to be awake since it was so late, and could only blink as he saw Luna sitting cross legged on the table.

 

She opened one eye, and asked with no dreamy tilt to her lips, as if she were being as serious as she ever could,

 

“Did you have a nice shower?”

 

Harry could only smile fakely, hoping it would convince her, but knowing it wouldn't.

 

“It was fine.”

 


	2. When Luna and I learn telepathy - and I let go/ fall apart

 

Sirius laughed nervously as he looked over to his godson. Harry was sitting, by the kitchen side, staring out of the window unseeingly. He'd been doing that a lot recently... and he wasn't really sure why. When he asked the little blonde girl, Luna, about it she simply shook her head sadly and muttered something about grims and their consequences. The best he had gotten out of her was the advice to stay away from Harry for the time being, and if he needed to be with him be with him in dog form, or speak in a very soft and slow voice.

 

“Hey, Harry?”

 

His godson didn't move, even when Sirius used his most soothing voice. He didn't really know what to do, he wasn't cut out to be a parent. Almost thirteen years in Askaban hadn't been easy for him, and even before that when Harry had been only a mere babe he had been worried to hold him without Lily looking over his shoulder and encouraging him.

 

Now he was back in his old family home, surrounded by his mother's screeching voice, and the walls that were too clean from Harry and Luna's cleaning. They spent their days walking about, reading books he didn't want them to read from the Black Library, and cleaning the rooms until the smell of rot and dark magic disappeared.

 

Sirius didn't really want to ask where Harry had gotten so good at cleaning, it sort of stuck in the back of his throat like bile and make him feel nauseous and faint.

 

He remembered vividly the time he asked if Harry wanted to help him cook dinner. The look of pure terror on his poor godson's face, the pause as if he were a doe caught in head lights... His green eyes certainly did look as wide to be a does. A shame they weren't as innocent looking, no, they were more haunted and jaded than innocent. It was clear. Then the stuttering of 'no thank you', as Harry almost fled out of the room.

 

Sirius could never relax in this house. Every painting and room held another memory of pain and loneliness for him, as if he were walking around in some sort of twisted nightmare. He felt a dark loneliness in his heart, and longed for attention and affection from his godson and that little blonde girl. He wanted someone to play cards with him, to draw him away from the demons that lurked in every shadow, but he didn't dare ask for he could see clearly (even with his clouded eyes from prison) that Harry was dealing with something worse than him at the moment, so Sirius let himself be lonely and be dragged into the pits of depression and despair. Until that year he had never truly appreciated the bonds he had had with his friends before James and Lily died, Peter betrayed him, and Remus didn't believe him.

 

Even thinking of Remus made his eyes water slightly. How could his friend have condemned him so readily?

 

He was constantly on edge, ready to dodge painful spells at a moments notice, and often found himself slipping behind his Occlumency shields to stop panic attacks.

 

As Sirius looked over at Harry he couldn't help but wonder if the boy had Occlumency shields as well, and that was why he had such a glazed look in his eyes.

 

“Harry? ...I made bacon and eggs?”

 

That seemed to catch his attention, as green eyes flashed, and moved away from staring out the window. He bowed his head almost subserviently, and Sirius couldn't help the feeling of dread that spread like thick ugly tar in his stomach. He _so_ wanted to be a good godfather for his godson, but he felt too unhinged at the moment, as if he were about to crack at any point.

 

Harry whispered brokenly,

 

“Bacon and eggs?”

 

There was a silence between them, a confusing silence that somehow didn't belong there, and Sirius could only watch in detachment as the black haired boy started to cry. Rivers of tears flowed down skin that was too pale from lack of sunlight, and Sirius had to take a step back away from the boy. He couldn't look at him in such a state, it felt like he was impeding on someone's private moment. And he knew, he knew, that normal people would probably wrap a crying person in a hug or soothe them with gentle words, but Sirius couldn't do it. He didn't know how. It had never happened to him and he didn't know how to do it. He wasn't trained for that kind of thing, no, he had been trained for torture curses and pure-blood etiquette. He didn't know how to care for someone in that way.

 

So, he simply looked at his crying godson, made three plates of bacon and eggs, and walked over to the dining room, taking one of the plates with him and leaving the others on the kitchen side. He started to eat, ignoring the guilt that gnawed at his heart, and did the monotonous task of scoop, chew, swallow, over and over, letting the bland flavour of the food fall down his gullet.

 

Luna entered five minutes later, holding no bacon and eggs, but instead a crying Harry on her back. Sirius could only blink, he hadn't thought such a small girl would have been able to carry a large book, let alone a sobbing godson.

 

The look she sent him was not one of scorn or blame, it was a look of understanding.

 

What Sirius would do to know what she saw with those eyes...

 

\--

 

“I'm fine.”

 

Luna smiled sadly at him.

 

“I'm fine.”

 

She tilted her head to the side, reaching out a hand to take his in hers. Harry flinched away, sinking deeper into the chair she had dropped him in.

 

“I'm fine.”

 

His voice was shaky and rough, with a certain husky quality to it given by Harry's sobs. Luna withdrew her hand and sat down on the rug a few steps away from him, watching Harry as he tried to convince himself.

 

“I'm fine.”

 

Harry pulled his arms tight around him, ignoring the itchy dried tears on his face or the slight dampness in his shirt. He was fine.

 

“I'm fine.”

 

He could see Luna settling down with a book, but knew she was not reading it. Over the past few weeks they had grown close, and could now read each others body language.

 

Luna was saying 'I'm going to pretend to read this book, because you need to pretend to be fine, but I'll be here if you need to talk.'

 

Harry was saying 'I don't want to talk about it and please don't touch me.'

 

He curled more tightly around himself, rubbing his forearms until they grew red and stung slightly. Harry tried to rub away the feeling of hands that he felt. He didn't dare close his eyes for the fear that when he would open them again there would be hands touching him all over.

 

Harry started to shake slightly, eyeing the room as if it were about to swallow him whole.

 

Luna said casually,

 

“This room is quite clean, don't you think? No one will have to clean this room for a long time.”

 

Harry relaxed involuntarily, something deep in his subconscious telling him that he would not need to clean this room and that he would be safe from his aunt's wrath in here. He had forgotten for a moment that his relatives had died, and that there was no one to scold him any longer.

 

Out of the corner of his eye he thought he could see the fabric of his aunt's apron. She always made him wear it when he cooked. It emasculated him in such a way that flowers and chopping boards only could.

 

' _Bacon and eggs._ ' his mind whispered tauntingly, reminding him of the breakfast Sirius had offered him.

 

Harry recoiled from the memory, desperately trying to lock it behind his Occlumency walls. He always had to make bacon and eggs for his relatives. It was Dudley's favourite breakfast, and what Dudley wants Dudley gets.

 

Hours of being chased by Dudley and his gang sprung to mind.

 

Harry's body said 'why am I so weak?'

 

Luna's body replied 'you are not weak and no one is here to hurt you, relax I will protect you.'

 

They had grown better at reading each other in the past few weeks, and rarely spoke out loud any more.

 

Luna said,

 

“I think it would be nice if we read through our summer homework again, don't you think?”

 

Harry nodded numbly, untangling his arms from around his chest and standing on shaky feet. Luna smiled at him in a sad understanding sort of way. She whispered something about Aquavirus Maggots and Nargles. Harry laughed suddenly.

 

She said nothing.

 

\--

 

Harry hadn't removed his glamours in a long time. They drained a significant amount of magic, and they sometimes made him feel nauseous but he did not let them fall.

 

He had held them for almost nine months now. Continuously. And he could feel them rubbing against his skin like many hands, scratching at his invisible scars, blowing how air at the back of his neck. They felt like a thick warm black ooze that was sinking down Harry's back and tickling the faint hairs on his uneven skin.

 

Harry was learning to ignore the feelings in his body, ignore the faint hum he heard in his ears which reminded him of the glamours constant ache against him.

 

Harry knew he was ugly. He knew that if he removed his glamours he might very well be sick. He knew that Draco only thought he loved him because Harry didn't have a scratch on him, or Draco couldn't see a scratch on him. Harry hadn't looked at himself properly for almost nine months, he was afraid to look at himself, afraid to see the blatant and haunting evidence of what his relatives had done to him.

 

Harry sometimes liked to pretend. He liked to pretend that he was not Harry Potter. Sometimes he would close his eyes and remember when he had felt so helpless.

 

_Harry gasped in pain as Uncle Vernon brought the belt down again. There was a moment of delay, as if the world had stopped spinning for a moment, with his muscle's tensed and mind in 'holiday mode' that Harry stood there with no feeling in his back. It was only a split second, barely noticeable, and it ended soon after as a sharp sting sprung up like goosebumps on his naked skin._

 

_His hands, pressed flat against the wall, legs spaced on the ground in a bracing position, clenched slightly at the breathy chuckle his uncle gave from behind him. He believed that since he had 'the right' to 'take it out' on Harry that he was better than him, that Harry was a weak child. As another whoosh of air was heard, tingling peach fuzz on his skin, before it broke through the thin and criss-crossed webbing of his shoulders, he couldn't help but shut his eyes._

 

_Harry wasn't here. He wasn't. This didn't happen and he wasn't here. There was no shame in his heart, no pain in his muscles, no scars stretching down his spine. Harry wasn't even Harry in that moment, he was someone completely different. Harry wasn't thirteen, he wasn't weak, he wasn't scared or ashamed or crying. There were no tears on Harry's cheeks since he was not Harry. And he made no sounds as his uncle descended upon him. He was anywhere but here._

 

And now he did the same thing. He liked to pretend that he was not Harry Potter, but Silas Black. Sirius Black's long lost nephew who had been invited to stay with the house temporarily. He was a charming man, with long black hair that reached past his shoulder blades, and had grown up a pure-blood child with a mother's love and father's pride.

 

Silas was a bachelor. Silas had never been hit by his uncle, and if he had ever been he would have hit back twice as hard with a spell on his lips. Silas was gorgeous, utterly magnificent, and he knew it. Girls swooned when he winked at them. Boys adjusted their collars and tried to remind themselves that they were straight. Grown men blushed like school girls, almost swooned like them too, and had to remember that Silas was only seventeen and was not looking for a relationship, they had to remember their wives and families.

 

Silas' magic smelt like Autumn leaves and Winter rain, he was a baby born right in between those two months, and always has a smile up his sleeve. Silas was a Slytherin, and a heart breaker, and ultimately wanted to become the Minister of Magic. He was charming, tall, old, and had _no scars_.

 

Harry sometimes pretended he was Silas. When he was all alone and the world felt like it was going to crash down around him he slathered on more thick glamours that made him look like his protector. He would stare in his reflection, at the icy window right beside the room that no one was allowed to enter, R.A.B. on the door, and a room that made Sirius choke when he passed it. Harry would not feel the urge to curl up in a small ball and slit his wrists again, or to simply stand in front of Walburga Black and let her taunts wash over him like his aunts.

 

Harry would be strong, cunning and beautiful. He would not cry when he looked into his own haunted eyes too long. He would not flinch away from Luna's touches. ...Harry would be beautiful again, strong again, not as weak as he had become.

 

He sometimes felt like a different person. He felt like everything that had made him strong had been cut out of him when those angels took that second soul away. Maybe Harry had never been strong, maybe that soul had been the thing that tricked himself and everyone else into believing he was a hero... a Griffindor... a strong boy.

 

Harry was broken, like a rag doll simply hanging from the dangerous strings of him invulnerable body. He could not die, he could not continue, he could not live. Harry was simply a shell of pain and sadness, desperately trying to push it all away and pretend that he could be like Silas. That he was Silas.

 

Perhaps it was a dangerous game to play life as someone else, but Harry didn't truly have much left to lose.

 

 

 


	3. When Luna helps a little - and Sirius wolfs out in Human Form

 

Harry wasn't hungry.

 

It was as if there were a hole in his stomach, a large black hole that just sucked and sucked and sucked until he felt nothing at all. He wasn't nauseous. He wasn't full. He wasn't hungry. His stomach didn't hurt or flutter or twist.

 

Harry felt empty.

 

Empty and dark, as if the world around him was in shadows and he was the plug that was draining all the light away. His blanket was tugged close around him as he held himself tightly against the wall, knees tucked under his chin, and light switch turned off. He simply layed there, curled on his side, his eyes open and looking unseeingly, in the dark.

 

He was shivering, as if he were cold, but he knew he wasn't. Harry's body was clammy with sweat and flushed from heat, but he still felt so empty and broken inside, as if nothing would ever be right again.

 

Harry felt so... wrong. So empty, and broken. And as he clenched his hands tighter around the flats of his shins, shaking ever so slightly and making the bed moan unhappily, he couldn't help but long for an end to this torture.

 

It was bad. Worse than it normally was. And the despair inside of him felt all consuming, all taking and all burning. As if he had been tossed into a tank of acid, and instead of burning skin first, he was burning from the inside out, his heart aching painfully in numbness.

 

 _Creak_.

 

A loud creak that made him freeze pulsed eerily across the dusty room. They'd cleaned the whole house but Harry didn't touch his room, there was still a small (all consuming) part of him that thought he deserved to sleep in squalor. Faint beige slippers shuffled in first, the undersides turning grey from the dusted footsteps they created. Blonde hair leaned out in front of the door, looming ominously in front of Harry, close but so far.

 

“There are more beds in the house than people to sleep in them, what difference does it make if we sleep alone or not.”

 

Harry translated Luna code into 'sleep with me, we have plenty of space'.

 

Harry clenched his eyes shut, his heart beating loudly in his empty chest.

 

“I know I'm lonely, and could do with a cuddle. Wouldn't it be nice?”

 

Her voice was so soft, but words so frightening. How pathetic was he! Scared of a cuddle. A cuddle never hurt anyone, a cuddle never smothered someone or locked the door and came into Harry's room, the smell of alcohol imprinting on his pillow, and screams seeping like mould into the walls, memories and knowledge rising up like foam in a grand sea, and his hands... on Harry's... as he...

 

Harry opened his eyes and realised that one of Luna's tiny tiny hands were on one of his white knuckled ones, gripping his shins with him in support.

 

He rasped,

 

“Does your door lock?”

 

Which was Harry code for 'can _he_ get me there?' And in that moment he didn't know if he was talking about Sirius or his Uncle, since a build in paranoia over the last few weeks had made both just as terrifying as the other.

 

Luna replied soothingly, letting Harry remember that this wasn't the first time she had saved him in the middle of the night,

 

“I have three locks on my door, and Sirius does not know where I sleep, neither do the dead.”

 

Which was Luna code for 'my room is an impenetrable fortress and ghosts don't know where the Black House is'.

 

That night, her warm arms around him did not ward off any nightmares, neither did they stop his fighting struggle or tears when he awoke. But that night Harry did not make his tongue bleed from suppressing the screams, like he had been trained to at the Dursleys, and they both saw this as progress. He couldn't help but hope that one day he might not scream in his sleep at all, and would awake with a throat not raw from the night of torment but soft from a night of sweet murmurs and warm feelings.

 

Maybe even a night of dreaming of Draco, remembering the soft feel of his arms wrapped around him, a memory of that sweet day by the lake- NO! Never! Harry's mind battered against his soul, shrieking at even having the nerve to suggest romantic inclinations. It was despicable and horrific to even peruse such a thought.

 

\---

 

Harry smiled light-heartedly as Luna slowly crept a hand across his arm chair. It was bright red and covered in white polka dots, with fluorescent orange trimming. It was so contrary to the whole colour scheme of the Black House, black, silver, green and dark red (which was probably blood), that it made his heart lighten ever so slightly. Sirius had left the house three days ago to buy new furniture, and only came home with an arm chair and a rug.

 

...the rug was worse in Harry's opinion, being an awful pink with the words 'muggle poster house', which he honestly had no clue what it meant.

 

The room was lit up, with the curtains open, the floor sparkling clean, Luna smiling, and packs of muggle cards in their grip. She was seated on the floor, legs crossed, leaning against Harry's arm chair. They were playing go fish... and Harry was feeling... okay.

 

“Do you have any 7s?”

 

She asked, a large grin tilting her lips. Harry scowled and threw his three sevens onto the ground in front of her. Luna looked up at him with her wide grey-blue eyes, beseechingly. Her body asked 'are you okay or are you pretending?'. Harry's body was relaxed and open, and replied with glee 'I'm okay.'

 

Harry asked,

 

“Do you have any Queens?”

 

Luna plucked out one card and placed it on the arm chair. Harry slotted it into his deck, not sure whether to be annoyed or relieved that he didn't have as many cards as Luna.

 

To be quite frank he wasn't a hundred percent sure what the aim of Go Fish was.

 

Luna smiled a dreamy smile up at him, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. Her body mused 'the reason we play is not for the game but for the people'. Harry agreed with a sharp nod of his head.

 

Luna said,

 

“Do you have any 4s?”

 

Harry scanned his deck and replied,

 

“Go fi-”

 

_SMASH!_

 

They both paused, their heads turning towards the sliding door in unison, as Sirius barrelled through and collapsed. He seemed to have forgotten it was a sliding door, and the one door that Harry actually liked in the house cracked open. Painted flowers and that mesmerising pale yellow backdrop which smelt vaguely of mould folded in on itself and burned under Sirius' enourmous weight.

 

Harry and Luna gently placed their cards face down, Luna's on the floor in front of her, and Harry's on the arm of the chair opposite to the one where Luna's hand was resting.

 

“Why are you hiding from Dumbledore?”

 

Sirius growled, quite like his dog form. Harry body stiffined without his consent, and the relaxed atmosphere which had permeated the room choked and died at the accusation on his godfather's lips. Luna placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, reaching up and around the chair, only for him to flinch away from her touch and burrow further into the arm chair.

 

Harry hated being this weak, absolutely despised it. It was bad enough that he'd been moping about for weeks on end and sobbing at the mention of eggs and bacon, but flinching when the first sign of trouble came was just hideous. Luna muttered to him quietly, reading his body's message,

 

“Don't build up your walls, you will never heal if you do that. It is strong that you have managed to let yourself be weak, do not force yourself to be strong.”

 

Sirius glanced between the two, rage still painting his face a horrid expression, and his hands rose to rest on his hips in the universal 'I'm pissed' pose. He scrunched up his nose in a snarl and started his tirade, Harry shrinking more and more as it happened,

 

“Why are you hiding from Dumbledore? I know why I'm hiding, because I'm an ex-prisoner and am still being hunted down by anyone who's anyone in the Ministry or a wizard. If they find me they're allowed to kill me on sight, and I don't trust the Ministry to not cover up this whole thing, I know they wouldn't give me a fair trial, and I'd end up soulless. But, you guys? What have you done? Why don't you trust Dumbledore? I mean... he's the leader of the light, the harbinger of justice and goodness. Why are you with me in this ratty house when you could be in some mansion with him? You shouldn't be on your own, and even I can see that I'm not a suitable guardian... what are you doing? Its reckless, silly, and unreasonable!”

 

Sirius stopped, panting, and Harry had to blink and pause for a moment. Luna simply sighed, understanding that this was going to happen eventually and said in a mysterious tone,

 

“Dumbledore is not all that he seems, neither Light nor Dark nor good nor bad. Every person is a middle on the spectrum, let that be a weak middle or strong has no precedence. He has committed crimes, as is the toils and punishments of war and Fate, it is not your burden or duty to hand over my Lord. Harry is not strong enough to deal with a horror such as his relatives, and I am not cruel enough to force him to. Dumbledore cannot see the person hiding behind the Golden Boy mask, and that is where he must be relieved of his control. You do not understand the happenings, and no one will explain in your state. Fix yourself, or look to get fixed, before you question the decisions of us.”

 

Sirius blinked, before turning around and leaving.

 

Luna soothed Harry, packing the muggle cards away, and sighing to herself.

 

 

 


	4. When I'm drowning in sad shit - and even I don't want to read on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Readers! Hey. So... yeah. :) Coolio.
> 
> Anyway, I just wanted to say, in case people were wondering that Harry isn't going to stay like this as a character forever. Its simply that he, up until now, hasn't been accepting what has happened to him, has been pushing it down and not caring for anything. Now, with all this time alone everything suddenly comes crashing down around him and he realises the horror of all that has gone on. So... I just wanted to warn everyone that this book will probably be less 'light hearted' than The Boggart (this story's prequel), which feels really strange to say since The Boggart is about an abused suicidal Harry... anyway, this is going to be more serious (even if there will be funny bits too).

 

He felt utterly pathetic.

 

He hasn't left the house in over a month, clinging to the absurd hope that he would never have to leave, to the hope that he could stay there with Luna forever, protected from the outside world. Harry wasn't getting better, it was killing him on the inside that he wasn't getting better, he still screamed out at night at invisible intruders, still clamped his legs together tight in the bath whenever he was naked, terrified that someone would come and push his legs apart. He sobbed into his pillow, veered clear of the kitchen, and hung off of Luna like a pathetic limpet.

 

Luna said he was still healing, that almost thirteen years of wounds couldn't be healed in one month, that a house soaked in dark magic with a guardian who wasn't completely reliable wasn't a suitable place. Harry could only stare at her, at the window, as if they both would burn if he touched them, as if he was dirty and rotten and toxic, everything he touched would burn away like Sirius' name on the Black Tapestry.

 

Harry tried not to dream, he would stay up for nights and nights, eyes burning in exhaustion, limbs weighed down like lead, blankets thrown off so that the cold could keep Harry awake. But it was never enough, he always succumbed eventually, sleep always dragged him away from Luna's words and soft songs, pulled him into terrifying worlds of pain and memories. He never knew he was sleeping in dreams, it was all so real, he was _back there_.

 

Harry was weak, others would have already gotten over this. The Dursleys were dead, they were gone, why was he still so afraid? There were no hands knocking on the door, banging on his cupboard for him to get up and clean, no hands turning doorknobs ever so quietly with malice traced into his footsteps, no hands reaching for his shirt, no hands reaching, always reaching, always touching, he was never safe, Harry couldn't breathe-

 

It had happened more than once. He had always known it had, always known that it was something he hadn't been able to escape. Harry had been numb, unwilling but numb, body no longer his own, only a prison to consume him, walls so high he couldn't see over. No wonder Occlumency had been so easy, Harry had trapped himself in his mind long ago, separating himself from a body he could no longer accept, a body he no longer owner, a body that belonged to his Uncle.

 

It had happened more than once. Harry had layed there and _took it_ like a whore, he had sobbed into his pillow, crying out, but had he fought? Yes, at first, he had hit that man with tiny hands and teeth and scratches and begged his magic to work, but then he had stopped, and snapped in half, and his fingers had numbed and dropped away, and his hands had clenched in the sheets. That morning he had got up, showered blood from his arse, and got to work as if nothing had happened. Harry hadn't cried, hadn't told anyone, hadn't locked his door with magic that wouldn't work.

 

Harry had walked back into that room, that prison, had worn an extra shirt, and had leaned down onto the bed, knowing it wasn't safe there. He had known that his uncle could come back and he had known it wasn't safe, it had never been safe. _My fault_ his mind cooed with painful honesty.

 

He could've run away, Harry could have done so many things, but he didn't. Partly from shame, partly because he thought he deserved it, and mostly because he had tried to escape before and it never worked. It was his life, an inescapable life that Harry was saddled with until he died.

 

Harry curled up like an injured puppy, holding himself together in his arms, blanket folded over him and the bright red armchair. He whispered mournfully to himself, no more tears left, one hand scratching at his forearm, over and over like the beat of a drum, to the rhythm of his heart. Maybe the pain would help.

 

Luna was there. Wasn't she always there? Beautiful and precious and innocent in her little blue nightie, a picture of a unicorn on the front, and large fluffy penguin slippers. She was so strong too, stronger than him, she was his protector. Luna would lie with him on his bed, or by his chair, or by his feet, always on lookout, always there to protect him from intruders. She held up a tiny gentle healing hand to the chair, knowing that he could grab onto it, like a life line. In her other hand was her wand, looking at the closed door, the only entrance, fixed by Sirius when he apologised for his outburst.

 

“...and he touched me Little Moon, put his hands on my skin. God, I can still feel him, he's _inside me_ , I'll never be rid of him. I can't breathe Luna, he's always there, he's dead and he still owns me, I'm still his, I'm so dirty. So weak. God, I am ruined. He was _inside of me_ , and it was _warm_ Little Moon, it shouldn't have been warm, I should have puked, but I couldn't breathe. Hands on top of me, always feeling, always reaching for me, I couldn't move, he held me down, fucked _inside of me_ , _inside of me_ , I swear I didn't want it, and he screamed at me that I did. I'm a whore, only his, he said it over and over and I almost believed him. I tried to get away from it Little Moon, tried to end it, tried to no longer be his, but I didn't die. Fuck I'm ruined. I hate myself. I'm so dirty, I'll never be clean, please let me get rid of him...”

 

Harry was sobbing, grieving, scratching at himself for the pain. He gripped Luna's hand with fierceness he didn't think he possessed any longer, solemn tears dripping hotly and wetly down his face. Snot on his chin, eyes wide, vision blurred and red, mouth tasting salt and blood and dirty skin. His arm was bleeding, fingernails like razor blades, and it stung, but it was better. If only a bit. If it only distracted him for a little while, let him forget for a little while.

 

And it was _his hand_ NOT **his, the man's name never to be spoken,** making it hurt, so it was _okay, he was his own, no longer his uncle's_. And the scratches would fade under his glamour anyway, but he would still feel them there, Harry could remind himself that he belonged to himself now. He did not bow down to his dead uncle, he did not bow down to his headmaster, he did not bow down to society. He could belong to _himself_...

 

Luna's body sung in sympathy and acceptance, 'You're gone from there, you're with me now, and I'll protect you'. She was crying too, only a bit, she had almost run out of tears after hearing it all, but she was strong for him. She had to be, Lord Harry was healing, but he would be better soon. Luna tried to reassure herself, he had to get better, the fates said so. Her Sight had never been wrong before.

 

Harry stared at himself in the mirror for a long time, the dark eyes looking back at him no longer seeming like his own. He tried to remember when he had been happy, but remembering those times only made him cry more. It was too much, it was constant, burning always under his skin like an addiction, he could never get away. Sleep was just another prison, there were only scarce hours of clarity, playing Go Fish and Rummikub with Little Moon in the parlour, her bringing flowers in for him to water, the stark temporary pain from when he made the bath scorching. But it faded, it all faded, back to that dark place that he couldn't escape. It was constant, always on his mind, always vying for his attention like a stalker sending blood filled suitcases and roses in the form of beheaded snakes.

 

 _How romantic_.

 

His stalker woke him up in the middle of the night with rapes and pleadings for suicide. It wrote on greeting cards that life was meaningless, that they were all going to end eventually that it didn't matter what they did in life, that no one would care if Harry died, that they would be relieved if he was dead. And he tried, god, he tried, almost every day he tried, but he could never die, tethered to the world with an angel's curse.

 

Even Luna couldn't get rid of it, even with her hugs and soothing words and fancy magic. She could never distract him for long with their midnight library visits and cookies sent from her worried father. Not even tales of mysterious and mystic creatures roaming all around the planet, or far off gods and realities that Harry could only try to glimpse while Luna looked on with glazed eyes, off in another galaxy.

 

He was stuck, stationary, glued to the same broken record of broken thoughts. It was terrifying, to want to die, to be so blasé about it, to accept that life wasn't good enough. Sometimes Harry gasped at his train of thought, sometimes he hesitated for being so selfish to want to die when so many never really had the chance to live, but then those hands would return to him, grasping at intimate places, calloused and sweaty and sticky, and Harry would scream, but no one could stop it.

 

Sirius didn't look at him anymore, he couldn't meet his eyes, not when Harry sobbed or scratched at himself or muttered under his breath about 'the man'. It would almost be funny that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had a competitor, but it wasn't, for his godson was so broken. Sirius spent most of his time in other rooms of the house, holding himself together, trying not to break apart, spending hours scanning the Black Library for a ritual to get rid of Harry's many scars.

 

Sirius had only seen them once. It had been at the start of the holidays, him still not yet letting his mother's retorts close him off to the world, and Harry seeming... okay. Or maybe Sirius just hadn't noticed what had been eating at his godson, the more he looked back the more oblivious he felt. Or perhaps just selfish, he had always been selfish, whether it had been with his brother, with James and his bullying games, or even with Remus, who he had taken for granted.

 

_Sirius smiled to himself as he made his way over to Harry's room. It was on the fourth floor, at the edge of the safe-house, in a dilapidated room that Sirius tried to forget. It was right next to Regulus' old room, still furnished by that mad house elf Kreacher's antics. He still choked up a bit near that room, remembering his brother who he had cared for, and his downward spiral into joining the Death Eaters._

 

_He crept his way over to his godson's room, knocking on the door once before opening, mouth open to ask Harry if he wanted to go to the World Cup. Sirius had read about it in the newspaper and thought it might be a good way to bond the two of them. The door swung open, and Sirius was about to speak, before his eyes caught on the horrid sight of his godson._

 

_Scars reached all down his naked back, whipmarks that Sirius had only seen on one other person: Snivellus, once, in Fifth Year when a fight had left them both with no shirts, and a lust filled gaze not suited for enemies at all. He did what he had done then, recoiled, eyes even more afraid when Harry turned around, and Sirius could see scars all across his face, burn marks down his chest, knife wounds on his ribcage, white outlines across his stomach. It was a patchwork of pain and torturous memories, and Harry could only gasp with wide eyes as Sirius found out an unwanted truth._

 

Sirius thought Harry would have wanted the scars gone, and had looked up rituals, but every time he came to suggest one or another he stopped. Harry had never seemed to want them gone, for whatever reason, and didn't even want to be around Sirius.

 

Harry stood in the hallway, hair grimy and skin an unhealthy pallor and pale from so much time indoors. His skin looked soft and gentle, smooth and unblemished, but he dared not touch it. Harry could still feel the scars under the skin, even if they were blocked from a human gaze. He let the mirror fog up with his breath, nose touching the surface, eyes gleaming into his own green reflection, before he travelled down the hall.

 

His body seemed to weigh him down, gait stiff and nervous, hands shaking ever so slightly. Harry could hardly breathe, _again_ , and he was so sick of it. Everything terrified him, everything was a jump scare, everything held on _too tight_ or _too long_. For once he just wanted to be better, to not be so sad or afraid...

 

Something gripped at his heart, something hard and unforgiving, and Harry's long gone stubbornness flared. He walked back to the mirror with purpose, taking out his wand (thankful for the heavy wards on Grimmond Place that managed to block the magic sensors) and flicking it at himself, feeling the soothing and unbiased drain of magic.

 

Harry looked back to the mirror, using a steady hand to clear away the white condensation, and stared down at himself with devilish eyes. Dark onyx eyes, long and confident limbs, hair down his his neck, falling in Black waves, cat black. His face was sharper, eyes softer, and mouth curled in a smirk. Stunning, beautiful, arrogant, confident, _Slytherin_.

 

No, he was not afraid, he was _Silas Black_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. When I look good as someone else - and look bad when it fails

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry! Another Authors Note, ah, what a bore. Anyway, this one actually matters, what do people think about having Silas Black as a temporary alter for Harry, I think DID (Dissociative Identity Disorder) might make it a little easier for him to cope, but it wouldn't be permanent. Any takers?

Silas Black was born on the 2nd of March 1975, and at present was 19 years old. He had graduated from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry one year ago, and was determined to make a name for himself in the world. He was interested in wizarding politics, and complex magic, not seeing much use in using such a wondrous gift in more mundane things like cooking or cleaning. Magic was a gift, and shouldn't be used for menial labour or other tasks that were quite easy to do by hand.

 

His father was a distant cousin of the Black family, who were notorious for their brilliantly dark magic and the Black Madness which tended to skip generations. Unlike how his family had advised, Creighton Black had married Amaryllis Selwyn, a women from a small branch off of the Slytherin line. She had been gorgeous, with deep onyx eyes quite like those from the Prince family, and high cheekbones that made her subtle and entrancing lips stand out. Creighton had been a genius at spell-making, if not so much a looker, with his knobbly nose and knees, but Amaryllis had fallen in love with his brain (and money) not his double chin.

 

It was safe to say that Silas had inherited all the animal magnetism and beauty of his mother, and all of the genius and confidence of his father, turning him into quite a formidable pure-blood. His father had always been quite distant, busy with work, but unlike other pure-bloods growing up in the time of Voldemort's rein he had never been abused or hit, and any of his more unsavoury relatives had been kept at a distance. Although his father had not been very close with Silas, his mother had always been there, from singing him lullabies to sleep, teaching him about proper etiquette of the world, and dancing with him in the rain, both of them laughing carelessly. For a boy who did not care for many in the world, he loved his mother like no other, always ready to be there for her.

 

He grew up to be a Slytherin, as expected by most, and didn't mind it one bit. Silas didn't go on some mad tirade trying to get Prince of Slytherin or some such nonsense, but spent his time gathering allies and doing well in school. It was _school_ after all, not a holiday, and he was there to learn. However, even if he was something of a bookworm, it didn't mean he didn't have a bit of _fun_ in his school years.

 

Silas _knew_ he was gorgeous, he wore it in every fibre of his being, striding around as if he was wearing a halo instead of a hat, and swaying his hips, winking at the ladies and gents all around, ego boosted to an almost infinite degree by the blushes that followed. Of course, it hadn't always been this way, with the prepubescent nerves, but Silas had grown into his skin and his sexuality quite well, confident in who he was as a person, and quite happy to take down any people in his way with no remorse. He had realised, after deflowering many of those attending Hogwarts, that he was not quite _just_ interested in girls, and had then added many 'straight' men to the notches on his bedpost. He wasn't looking for love, happy to play to field to his parent's disapproval, but was looking for a ways to get ahead in the world, and options.

 

Currently he was staying with his distant uncle Sirius Black, who was, let's be honest, quite unhinged. He spent his days staring out the window, moping about, and avoiding Silas like the plague. His mother had warned him about 'certain oddities' of his uncle, but Creighton had quite insisted that Silas needed to spend some time with other branches of the family, worried about his health, and thinking it would be better for Silas to have someone to turn to just in case.

 

In Silas' opinion Sirius Black would not be an ideal candidate due to his instability and... Griffindor nature.

 

However, the trip hadn't been a complete waste, since he had met a blooming young seer, Luna Lovegood. She was a pretty blonde Ravenclaw who was also a bit off her rocker. She tended to call him 'Lord Harry', and to follow him around like a puppy, but an ally with her magical prowess was not to be wasted. One thing Silas remembered about Luna from the time he had known her was that she played a mean game of Go Fish. A game that was mostly luck, but with her Sight she always seemed to win; cheating, in his opinion.

 

That day Silas was out in Diagon Alley, adorned in his fanciest robes, hair combed to perfection, and eyes dark and seductive. It wasn't often he had managed to get out that holiday, so he spent most of his time flirting with passers by and gaining ego points from their flushes or stutters. It was sunny out, the sun bright and warm in the sky, and Silas, with a smidge of narcissism, remembered how he almost seemed to _glow_ in the sunlight. Okay, he was a _bit_ vain, everyone had their faults.

 

'Little Moon' as she preferred to be called, apparently, was trailing on behind him as they went about, searching for next years school books. Luna would sometimes glance at him worriedly, with a strange look on her face. It wasn't that she didn't normally have strange looks on her face, it was only that this was more strange than usual. Silas decided to ignore it, some would say it was silly to ignore a seer, but he honestly was just not in the mood for this today. He wanted to strut his stuff!

 

Silas smirked at a passing muggleborn, winking as the boy flushed scarlet and stared at his lips too long. _Still got it_ he thought smugly, swaying his hips slightly to flirt his deviant nature. The tall black boy walked on, looking back at Silas' behind as he sauntered down the street. Luna gasped in awestruck confusion, and he smirked at her,

 

“What, never seen me flirt?”

 

She blinked, head off in the clouds for a moment, before a mysterious smile graced her lips,

 

“...Silas Black, it makes so much sense now.”

 

He shook his head at the enigma which was his seer and continued more down the busy magical street. They stopped at Flourish and Blotts, stepping inside, passing the magical traffic, and filling a magical bag that Luna's mother had made years ago with many school books. Silas raised his eyebrows as he saw volumes for fourth year, but Luna would just smile at him in a non-answer, and bought the literature.

 

As they were leaving the shop a slightly shrill and confused voice stopped them in their tracks. Silas spun with flare, his robes accenting his curves and pale skin, eyes landing upon a blonde haired boy who looked to be about fourteen. He had a pointy face, with stark platinum Malfoy Hair, and the sharp lines of an aristocrat. Great, the next generation of Malfoy, mother had warned him about this, saying they were all whiny snot-nosed brats.

 

“Yessss?”

 

Silas drawled, eyes flat and not impressed. The boy was cute, yes, but he was _far too young_ to flirt with, which was just annoying. Look at those eyes, silver and mysterious, _to die for_ , but because Silas wasn't a paedophile he couldn't flash the kid his flirtatious smile without a pang of guilt. Merlin, had it really been so long since he had gotten laid that he was crushing on kids now?

 

“Luna?! Is that you?”

 

Silas sighed in understanding, one of Luna's friends from school, of course. Maybe they were part of this Order of the Cerberus cult that Luna had tried to convince him he 'would be lord of'. Luna smiled in her dreamy fashion and said,

 

“'Tis me, how nice to see you, Consort Draco.”

 

'Consort Draco' flushed, and Silas raised an eyebrow in surprise. _Consort?_ And so young too, wow, from what mother had said the Malfoys weren't the type to instil gay arranged marriages, if only because the public saw male pregnancy potions as 'dark magic' (meaning the Malfoys would have to avoid them) and they relied upon children so much. Especially since they normally only had one or so child every generation, with the rumoured Malfoy Fertility Curse still going on.

 

The platinum little ferret hissed,

 

“ _Not Consort_ , you'll scare Harry off!”

 

Luna giggled, and whispered something that sounded suspiciously like 'not likely' under her breath. The little Malfoy's eyes turned to Silas with suspicion, mouth twisted in confusion,

 

“Who's this?”

 

Luna came and whispered to him, Draco's eyes going wide as she spoke, and Silas felt a bit out of the loop. He rolled his eyes in a plebeian gesture which Creighton would have frowned at, and said blasé,

 

“I'm Silas Black, its not that long of a name.”

 

Draco was suddenly blushing uncontrollably, and Silas withheld the smugness from his expression, he didn't even have to flirt to get them to flush. He was _gorgeous_. Luna stepped back to his side, giving Draco a look that said 'don't tell Silas', and Silas was not impressed. He sighed, as if very put upon, and said,

 

“Well, nice meeting you Consort Draco, we'll be going now.”

 

Draco's eyes widened as if he wanted to stay, but Silas just brushed him off and walked out of the shop, Luna trailing behind like a good puppy. He smiled a little at her, she was quite sweet, if not annoyingly mysterious.

 

Silas leaned against the alley wall, familiar with Knockturn Alley and not caring about the angry/hateful glances he had gained by strolling down it. Sure, the folk weren't the 'nicest' but Knockturn Alley was where you got the best potion ingredients. A hobby of his, Potions, a little avenue he tried to explore in his free time, cooking up new potions and the like, channelling his intelligence into a 'menial field' which Creighton dislikes. “Potions are for the workers, son, not a Pure-blood profession.” Something his father liked to preach and Silas liked to ignore, smirking _he_ would be the one to cure his ailment, and then what would father say?

 

Luna was off buying some musical instruments or Merlin knows what, Silas wasn't even trying to keep track of her. Yes, okay, he should probably be doing his babysitting properly, she was only thirteen, but from what he could see she was more mature than most of his peers, _and_ she seemed quite capable of handling her wand. Silas _probably_ shouldn't be endorsing under-age magic, but he wasn't the law, and he felt magic should be free, so he wasn't about to oppress her.

 

“Hello pretty boy, looking for a wild night?”

 

Silas opened his eyes, seeing a gorgeous looking man with arms leaned against the wall, long dark robes and soft brown hair... there was something about his eyes. He squinted for a moment, the dank and mildew smell from the alley momentarily distracting him before he caught it, _red rings_. Right around the iris, scarlet red rings, coupled with pale skin and an unmoving chest.

 

_Vampire._

 

But, Lady Magic Above, he was a gorgeous one. Finely arched face, shiny _sharp_ teeth, porcelain skin, hips that looked so easy to grab onto... Silas was no creature hater, no matter what others may assume, and had of course had his fair share of vampire hookups... there was one thing though...

 

“Blood Viruses?”

 

The vampire smiled, showing far too many teeth, and brought out a scrappy piece of parchment from his pocket, handing it over and hissing seductively,

 

“You're a smart one, that's for sure.”

 

Silas scanned the medical certificate, letting out a relieved sigh when it showed the vampire had no Blood Viruses, and gave the other man a saucy grin. He purred, eyes dark and scanning the vampire's body like a prize,

 

“I'd _love_ to get to know you better.”

 

Then, faster than Silas could see, the vampire pounced forward, pressing its cold and smooth body against him, and attaching itself to his neck. It licked and nibbled at his veins, kissing roughly against his fair skin, and making Silas' head fall back against the alleyway wall with a groan. Pleasure spiked in his gut and Silas gasped,

 

“Fuck you're good that this.”

 

It was all going well, the vampire was against him, hot and heavy, Silas panting beneath. Groaning with satisfaction as the other rubbed on his thigh, staring at brown hair, red ringed eyes, alabaster skin, that magnificent body... and then... he heard a voice in the back of his head.

 

“ _You **freak** , you actually like this don't you?”_

 

Rough and gruff and tainted and horrifying, shame burned down Silas' spine like he had never felt. Suddenly he was trapped beneath the vampire and he was no longer willing, he was curled scared in his arms, being _raped_ , hands all over his body, trapped, he couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Harry's eyes opened and he let out a terrified scream, pushing the vampire away, glamours falling away, green eyes returning to him, mind returning to him.

 

The vampire stared in shock for a few moments, a brief glimpse of concern on his face, before he flashed away, and left Harry curled up in Knockturn Alley, sobbing into his arms. God, he was dirty, he had _wanted it_ , begged for it to stop, but no, he was a whore. His body was tainted, he was a freak, he was so _wrong_ and _toxic_ and _defiled_ and _putrid_ and-

 

“Lord Harry?! Harry, oh no, Silas had left you... oh my Harry, come on, we'll get you to safety, I will protect you, its okay now, come on, stop crying, you're so brave my Harry, deep breaths.”

 

And then Luna was there, cuddling him to her chest, dropping her mother's bag to the ground so she could hold him, pulling him against her lap. She stroked his hair, whispered into his ear, sung soothing songs, until he stopped crying and shaking and sobbing... Luna pulled him against her and made it all okay. He was... okay with her, safe, no one could get to him.

 

Harry sat in his red polka dot arm chair, snuggled under the new blanket she had bought for him in Knockturn, staring at the large pile of books he would need for next year. Luna sat on the rug, smiling, and laughing, and joking with him like an old friend. She gave him a mysterious grin and handed him a package, wrapped in baby blue paper with little sheep on the outside, all baaing along to the tune of Happy Birthday To You. So quiet and peaceful.

 

He slowly, carefully, so the paper could be saved, opened up the present, tears in his eyes. It was a little musical instrument, a small ocarina, wooden and polished, with his roughly engraved name on the bottom _Lord Harry_. He picked it up like a precious baby in his lap, looking at Luna with soft eyes, she smiled back at him,

 

“Didn't think I'd forget your birthday, did you Lord Harry?”

 

 

 

 


	6. When I'm not there - but Draco is and he's hurting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello Readers! The latest results for the flirting poll! (its not too late to contribute)
> 
> Cedric & Victor- 4
> 
> Fleur & Victor- 1
> 
> Fleur & Cedric & Victor- 1
> 
> All three striving for a polyamorous relationship- 1
> 
> In other news! After feedback from one of my readers it has been suggested Harry does not acquire D.I.D. and instead merely acts like Silas in some situations to calm himself. Hmm... I like it, but would also be grateful for some other feedback too :). Also, sorry its been so long! Huh, time flies, eh?

Draco Malfoy felt his eyes flash against his own violation as his father paced in an un-Malfoyish manner, orders spilling from his lips fervently as Draco stared on with sharp silver eyes. He felt an ache in his chest, which could only be contributed to the absence of Harry, a thought that would have taken him by surprise last year but now only grated in the back his mind. After giving his recount of the year, withholding some (cough cough rather important) information i.e. his abandonment of the Slytherin Hierarchy, and new loyalty to Harry Potter, his father was taking the news surprisingly well...

 

for his father.

 

“- _this is not the year to mess up Draconis_.”

 

He turned to Draco, saying sharply, lips pursed as he contained his utter rage. Draco resisted the urge to tilt his head at the man he had never truly understood. He truly didn't feel much for this man, other than knowing his father's opinions could be held accountable for a lot of the things he had believed for a long time. There had been a Lucius part of him that had held a startlingly amount of power over him, just like the man himself, but now that he had undergone the 'Harry transformation' Draco found that it didn't seem to hold the same effect. Draco was less about following orders and more about the protection of his... love, mate, boyfriend, crush?

 

Draco internally shook himself as his father continued to rant, in a way he would do every year on the eve of his return from school. It was a tradition in their house, for Draco to stand, awaiting orders, and his father to analyse the information gained from another year at Hogwarts and consider how he wanted his son to behave. It was no secret in the house that Draco was not precisely a _normal boy_.

 

His childhood could be considered less of a time for growing, rather he reflected back on it as training. Draco had been taught extensive etiquette, politics, ambitions, survival training, and strategies in order for his father to live vicariously through him, as a power house within the wizarding world. He had successfully become head of the third year (possible fourth) Slytherin hierarchy, networked with an outrageous amount people, and paved the way for a successful career and future. However, he lacked certain empathetic and moral skills that would normally be taught to a child, and now, with a true yearning for something (someone) there was not much to stop him from getting what he wanted, regardless to what his father wanted or the consequences of certain immoral actions, such as murder.

 

Draco's mother had never truly approved of how her son was raised; like a soldier. She had let it be, with the promise that if they were to conceive another child it could be a _normal boy_. Draco was not strictly sure what to think of his mother, now that he cared less for his father's orders and beliefs and more for his true love. There wasn't really anything that mattered in his life except for Harry and Harry's happiness, bringing the matter of coming through this well adjusted quite unlikely. Deep down even Draco knew it wasn't healthy to be that invested in another human, to base your whole world around them, but there was nothing he could do to change how he felt.

 

He and his mother sometimes had tea together in the garden with her azaleas, commenting on rather thin topics, nothing of real substance ever being discussed. Up until then Draco hadn't truly understood why his mother wanted to 'talk with him'. He had beheld a few weak ideas of her trying to prepare him for how to integrate himself with normal society ( _normal boy_ etiquette) or update her on how the plans were going, but this year, after experiencing emotions such as grief, love, jealousy, faint guilt, anger, embarrassment, anxiety, and arousal, he was pretty sure he knew why.

 

She was his mother, and therefore loved him, to whatever degree she could. Draco knew that he would like to have tea with Harry as well, and knew that was because he loved him and wanted to be around him, although he hoped that he loved Harry in a different way to how his mother loved him. He could finally understand her insistence that they 'bond' somewhat. Draco was almost looking forward to it now, curious if he could experience more _normal boy_ emotions for his mother now that he had broken past some of his training.

 

“-and I would definitely think it important to extinguish any doubts that you are on top, this is very important for fourth year as-”

 

Draco tuned his father out, something that would have been quite unfathomable before this year, but found he just didn't care that much anymore. He almost thought he felt what could be called amusement stirring inside his chest because of how seriously the man took himself, ignoring the very quiet and subdued Lucius part inside of him that chastised him for behaving in such a manner. He let his thoughts drift back to the most important thing; Harry.

 

The boy had returned the goblin made necklace Draco had given him just before the end of term, something that set Draco on edge slightly. He had no clue of if Harry were safe and where he was, unsettling his newly gained protective instincts. Even if he wasn't feeling quite himself when back at the house, less like the boy he had turned into this year and more like the soldier his father wanted, he still felt a huge well of love and possessiveness for one Harry Potter. A part of him may be taking catalogue of his health and magical levels even at this moment, as if he were just a vessel for orders and not really a boy, but Draco had finally tapped into deep vacuums of emotions inside, that felt so foreign and yet so desirable, and was not going back to his old ways any-time soon.

 

Draco felt a pang of anger at not being a normal boy, and fought off the clenching of his fists. Normally he would not care for such a blatant display of emotion, but he needed to be careful here. He could not risk it getting out to his father how he felt for Harry, as surely that would only end badly with Harry becoming a target or at risk in some fashion, not to mention the bad outcomes that would come of his father learning of his free will. He had always been free to some extent, able to analyse situations and act on them of his own accord, but he had always shared his father's goals and had never strayed from the paths layed out for him. Draco was dangerous now.

 

“-Dumbledore has been suspiciously quiet, especially regarding what you have mentioned about Weasley's rodent, and it is possible that-”

 

Draco tilted his head, so as to crack his neck, and let his eyes unglaze slightly as his father looked over to check on him. He needed to seem as if he was actually paying attention, Draco ordered to himself, as his father began to pace once more, tone becoming more tense and strident, steps more measured as his mind was taken away in a flurry of thoughts.

 

Draco thought back to that conversation he had experienced with Harry before he had left to commit suicide. It seemed so long ago now, that Harry had curled in that alcove, and Draco had drawled in his school persona. Even then, he realised with a start, he had felt the beginnings of worry in his chest, and the facial expressions and movements he had done to resemble normal social interactions (when he had cried “oh my” when Harry talked about his rape) had been slightly true. He had cared, even before he had realised his love for Harry Potter, even before he had sifted through enmity placed by his father to find the care that had always been there, even before first year, even before that first carefully constructed meeting on the train, even before their first argument, even before he had ever met him, even before-

 

“-and it... Draconis? _Are you listening?!_ ”

 

He felt his head tilt automatically to see his father looking at him with an incredulous slide to his lips. Draco nodded ever so slightly, reaching behind his Occlumency barriers to find the remnants of their conversation. He repeated in monotone,

 

“And it is possible that the Zabini family has been organising plans for the Nott family, as you had noticed a new closeness this year between Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini, which, while it may be brimming friendships, could also be machinations of those troublesome adults wishing to gain powerful allies in a marriage. Perhaps, this year, it may be best to separate the two and it... Draconis. Are you listening.”

 

His father gave him a long searching look, as if scanning him for falsehoods, before he nodded once more, slight pride in the gesture, and continued to speak. Draco let the shock from his realisation settle like sediments in a river bank, leaning back slightly on his heels as if absorbing a blow. He pushed pesky emotions aside again and refocussed on his father who was once again invested in his own schemes, something which had once seemed so important that now held little standing in his life.

 

“-I may be able to arrange a marriage with the Nott family, if there is some political power for them on the rise, even if I had first highly anticipated joining with the Greengrass House and their architectural facilities and fortune-”

 

…

 

Draco daintily sipped his tea from a floral cup, eyes absorbing the elegant woman seated across from him, who gazed at him with what he could realise as barely concealed anxiety. Her hair was combed to perfection as normal, tied back in a tight braid, cleansed with magical conditioners and oils, skin smooth and clear as she let her deceptively strong limbs sip at her own bland tea. Narcissa's lips shone a bright red in the evening light, her cheekbones catching rays of sun as she tilted her head. She placed the cup back onto its platter, an unavoidable clang ringing out and slicing through the tense atmosphere.

 

“Draco.”

 

She said warmly, a hopeful motherly register in her voice that sent faint tingles over Draco's clothed arms. He was wearing his summer robes, which were light and soft, not magically enforced like those assigned to him for Hogwarts time. Draco could read the expression on her face much clearer now that he understood emotion, at least to some extent, and the care she had for him, even if she had not protected Draco from his father's plans.

 

“Mother.”

 

Draco replied cordially, watching closely as he saw a sliver of hope dim from her eyes, as she assumed he was the same as always. Part of him longed to let himself fall loose, to let his limbs unwind, to let his head fall into the distant woman's lap and her fingers trail through his hair, for him to moon about his love for another boy to the mother who had always seemed so far away. Narcissa let a pale and thin hand rest on the table, between them, as if it was there for him to hold if he needed it.

 

She always did that, and Draco thought he was starting to understand why. He only saw her once or twice a year, but, he was finally starting to recognise that she did not hold an ulterior motive in these visits; she was his mother, she instinctively cared for him. Just like his father _should_ have. Narcissa asked primly, lips pursed slightly now that she thought it would be like always,

 

“How has school faired you? Have you gained any new allies?”

 

Draco thought of what it would be like to tell her he had befriended three Light scions, that he had left his seat as leader of the Third Years, that he had found out what his Patronus was, that he was in love with a boy, that the boy had been raped and Draco didn't really know what to do about that. He longed to bare his teeth, let his eyes flash silver, and whisper that he had killed two people last year, he had watched the life drain from them, them splutter blood over his best robes which he had worn because it was a _special occasion_ , he had done it because they had hurt his love, they had kept that boy in a cupboard and had called him a freak. He wanted to let her seep into his mind and see the sharp edges that remained, but most importantly the healing soft bits that belied emotions such as love, such as shame, such as the ability to understand. Draco wanted to hold her close and whisper of how he wished he could love her, could love anyone except a boy that he loved too much, how he wanted to want to give her that goblin gold necklace but knew he wouldn't.

 

He would see that she had not given up on him, he would see the life flash in her eyes, the tears as she cried for him, with him, the redness on her cheeks as she blushed as Draco told her everything he wanted to _do_ with another boy, the forbidden deed, every inch he wanted to taste, every part that he would have if he could, ever blessed sound he wanted Harry to make for him, and not just for marriage, not just for power, for an expression of love, an expression of _arousal_. He wanted to look her deep in the eyes as she broke before him, as she screamed that he was a monster, that killing was wrong, that how could he, he wanted to see her blame herself, to scratch at her skin until she bled her Black blood _out_ , and rid herself of the demon inside that had allowed her to let him be moulded into nothing more than a tool. Draco wanted to say her name and say he loved her, then watch her heart break as he took it back, and amended that he loved only one, and it was not her. He would watch her breath stutter, her heart pound, her eyes water, her lips purse, he would watch the love, the disrespect, the fear, the _change_ that he could _achieve_.

 

Instead, he leaned back in his seat slightly, lifted his tea cup to his chapped lips, drank slowly, placed it down, and said sedately,

 

“I have delved into the other side of the spectrum, set on befriending those close to Potter's inner circle, in a hopes of taking Light allies. Everyone has a use.”

 

It was something the old Draco would have said, and he watched, apathetically, as it tore at his mother, the woman who had left him with, not a monster, but a trainer, as if Draco had only been an animal to be trained. He watched her breathe the same, as if she had expected only so much, the slightly bitter smile that graced her lips as she muttered over her own tea, hands trembling ever so slightly, no matter how long she had been given to prepare for this meeting, no matter that she had _wanted_ to see him. He watched how her hands still trembled.

 

“Lovely, dear.”

 

Draco wanted to watch her burn, with the new anger that sat in his chest, he wanted to watch her skin bubble and bones melt for the injustice, for the pain he now felt, for Harry's pain. He wanted her to watch him burn the world, he wanted the honest heartbreaking bitter-sweet horror, and not the bandage that sat over the open wound which was their stunted relationship. He wanted her to travel back in time and steal him from his father's arms, to take him away some place where he could be a real boy and not the fake broken thing he was now. He whispered, voice carrying over the lovely garden that surrounded them,

 

“In Potions we have investigated the properties of many poisons, natural or otherwise, their antidotes, and why's of these. In Herbology we have moved away from the basic properties of plants and into the structure of them, their environment, and how this effects their uses. In Astronomy we have memorised the stars in the Orion Belt Constellation, and furthermore memorised the star constellations of Aquarius and Aquila. In Defence Against the Dark Arts we have investigated dangerous creatures, specifically werewolves and boggarts. In Care of Magical Creatures we have looked at various creatures and their care, such as a hippogriffs and their dangers. In History of Magic we have investigated the goblin wars, specifically those of the fifth century and how this relates to present day warfare. In Transfiguration we have moved on from the theory and more into complex animate transfiguration. In Charms we have memorised more charms and their conflicting uses. In Runes we have begun the basics of runic equations and the potentials for runes.”

 

Draco recited the school year curriculum as he knew was expected of him, eyes sharp for a change of heart within Narcissa, some sign that would show that she _knew_ this was wrong, that he was broken. She did not look bored as he had perhaps hoped, instead she heartbreakingly drunk in his empty words, even if she held a slight disheartened tone. There was a strong hesitance as she hedged her next question, eyes searching him, so unlike Lucius' from the previous evening but so similar. She looked so vulnerable as she asked,

 

“And friends, Draco, have you made any friends?”

 

Draco remembered the fluctuating years she had asked this. It was not every year, but it was an odd question that had always stood out to his past self, an enigma which didn't seem to match any logical reasons for her wanting to know. He had known his father's reasons for asking the brittle question _Have you made a friend, Draconis?_ , to know he was not developing friendships that went both ways, to know he was not developing a heart. But his mother who had no need to know, as she was not involved in the plans, seemed illogical. Now he knew, it was not a logically driven question, but one spurred by emotions; specifically hope.

 

Hope that Draco still had a heart after his training.

 

Draco paused, giving her a long look, wondering if he could trust her not to reveal the truth of his changing interior to her husband. His shifting insides that so needed to be spilled, but also protected from the _healing_ Lucius would enact if he ever found out. Part of him wanted to trust her, but it was not the right thing to do, especially as he did not know where her true loyalties lay, or if she was still in contact with his father. Draco couldn't find a good reason to tell her that was not influenced by a hope that they could have a relationship, so he lied,

 

“No, Mother.”

 

The vindictive part of him which had enjoyed when Vernon Dursley had spluttered his last breath was overjoyed at the revenge against a woman who had saddled Draco with an existence of being controlled and sub-humanhood. A part revelled in her crushed expression hidden under layers of flaking masks, a part could almost smell her despair, a part that was more predator than boy. Another wept inside, begging to be held, wailing over the corpse of his recently killed love, a part that was reserved strictly for Harry. A third apathetically watched as tears built behind his mother's eyes, a part that held control on decisions, a logical steering wheel that did not blink as she fell apart. The last, small, quiet, oppressed, Lucius shaped part whispered that Draco must treat his mother with respect, that Narcissa was a woman to be respected.

 

 _Respect your mother_. Another lesson taught by his father. Another lesson not to trust.

 

…

 

Draco's room resembled a boy's room, it held all the right parts, and they were even placed properly, but it didn't quite hold up to standard. It was like him in that regard, a good enough mimicry that could pass the test, but wouldn't hold up in reality. Draco existed as a boy in a world where his room existed as a boy's room. But it wasn't true.

 

 _He'll never love you. He'll realise you're broken. He'll realise you're a monster, know you're a wolf in a boy's clothing_. That new, deceptive, voice whispered in his ear with malice. The anxious voice that snarled that he would never do enough to earn Harry's love, that he was too broken no matter how much he pretended. Draco wasn't a real boy, and Harry deserved a real boy to hold and heal him. He couldn't quite pass scrutiny when someone looked him in the eye long enough, they would stare, and they would see the newly made cracks in the mask, the seeping anguish that came with the knowledge that he was just a tool who hadn't even felt until this year. He wasn't real.

 

His room was set up so that if someone walked into it they might think it was a real place, but Draco knew, from living within it, that it was not. There were clothes in his drawers, formal, everyday, night, school and special robes, all folded, pressed, cleaned, and scented. There was a robe, at the back of his drawer, specially made for a planned wedding day that had not occurred. They were _boy's robes_ in _boy's drawers_ but it was not a _boy's room_.

 

Draco had never really thought about that robe until he had fell in love with Harry, he hadn't understood its purpose, what it represented. It had just been a robe, a destiny, and he had been okay with it, had even set certain foundations of friendships with both Greengrass daughters, had sent correspondence to their eldest son in case his father decided Draco was better suited to the elder Greengrass heir. He had a recent letter from Damien Greengrass, it sat like burning rocks in his desk draw, folded to perfection, next to his writing paper and special quill, to the three bottles of ink. One black regular brand for everyday letters, one red metallic sparkling for emergencies, one golden glittering mesmerising for special letters. That letter was folded like his folded wedding robe, sat waiting for him to wear it, to reply, to sit in that chair and play his role.

 

He did not truly know Damien Greengrass, no matter the book of notes he had on the boy in his desk, along with his two sisters, his future possible spouses. Draco realised that his father now expected him to take the same notes on Theodore Nott, a boy who slept in his dorm, and could, one day, sleep in his bed, a boy who could be politically affable for his cause. Theo, as his classmates called him, brown hair, skill for charms, did not like Quidditch, preferred to read and observe, was good at exploding snap, was pure-blood, had a long dynasty of... Draco felt himself falling back into old patterns of doing what Lucius wished.

 

Until his new perspective he had seen it only as fabric, had seen the room just as walls, as wards, as protection, as the place that he was meant to sleep until his father wanted to talk. He had lived his life, as a body, as a thing that spoke and moved just right to convince people, that followed the orders and watched as the people around him danced like puppet's on strings, as his magic, a tool, just like him, moved to his will, filled his command, as his magic commanded, as his magic moved, just a thing, room to room, and it was not him that had controlled the magic, it had been the man that controlled him. And the man that controlled his father, who, even dead and gone, was still controlling him, somehow.

 

The walls of the room were painted a faint yellow, Draco realised, a colour he felt nothing for, a colour he neither hated nor liked, as he made his way over to his willow desk. It would have been more constructive to have had a desk made of hawthorn, like his own wand, as it would have channelled his energies better, but he knew it was not about efficiency, no, just getting the job done. His desk had never bothered him up until that day, but now it felt like it was glaring at him, it was doing it on purpose, it was blaringly causing problems. He felt his normally calm and dead magic spur to life in his veins, flaring with an anger he could not control, at a desk he did not like, in a room he hated.

 

Draco hated somethings. He hated many things. He hated his father. He hated his mother. He hated Hogwarts. He hated Vernon, Petunia and Dudley Dursley. He hated that they got a funeral. He hated Harry's tears. He hated his own ineptitude. He hated failing. He hated Quidditch, he hated losing, he hated winning, he hated playing, he hated that he was expected to play, he hated heights, he hated that he had to repress his hate of heights. He hated Dumbledore. He hated Neville Longbottom. He hated Harry Potter, but not nearly as much as he should. But most of all he hated this room.

 

This room, with his _prized broom_ held up on display, to be taken when he left for another year of dangers and playing a part he was not fit to play. Draco was capable, yes, but he was not right to play it, he was too broken to keep pretending, to keep attending every single class filling out homework like he knew they wanted him to, hated making small _clerical_ errors so as to appear human, even when such errors had been taken out of him before he could write. This room, with the double bed, even though only _he_ had ever slept in it, and when he married he would be moved to a different room. This room, with the bed he would never understand, with the space in that bed he would never need, the comfort that seemed squandered. This room, absent of all toys, shelves filled with perfectly organised books. This room, one book that sat on his coffee table by that damned fire which never stopped burning. This room, with the window to the Quidditch pitch, to the outside of the manor. This room, an empty painting on the wall, black, empty, waiting for the manor to be invaded and guards to be needed. This room, warded to _keep him inside_ even if Lucius trusted him, he did not truly trust him, for he was still just _a tool_ and _tools can break sometimes, son, so I am making sure you can be fixed in time_.

 

He hated the nerve of Lucius to call him 'son', even if it was a rare askance behaviour.

 

He hated how Lucius had trained him to be so unstoppable, but still never considered that he wouldn't be able to hide his own malfunctions. That Draco was always so transparent.

 

Draco knew every inch of this room, one of his training exercises, to analyse everything within a room, to know where he was in relation to everything else. He knew every inch and he hated every inch. He was supposed to know. To _know_. To _always know_.

 

 _Always know, Draconis_.

 

He hated how Lucius called him Draconis, when everyone else he knew called him Draco. He called him by his 'proper name' as if he was naming a product, and calling it by _what it was_ and not _what it wants to be called_. He hated how he was not even human enough for a nickname from his father. He hated how the headmaster would sooner call him Draco than Lucius. He hated that folded piece of paper in his drawer from Damien Greengrass that sounded perfectly friendly, that paper that asked ' _I have a client in England, so I thought I might stop by for a bit and we can meet in person, maybe catch a drink_.' He hated how even though Draco had only just turned fourteen Damien Greengrass could still consider cementing their foundations, like Draco was doing with Astoria and Daphne.

 

He wondered if Lucius would ask him to befriend Alexander Nott, the notoriously abusive older brother of Theo, who had been described by his own flesh and blood as ' _one to stay away from, Draco, if you see him, please try to stay away_ '. Draco hated that it might be a possibility, to be married to someone that would hurt him, that it could be an acceptable sacrifice for 'the cause'.

 

He hated The Cause.

 

Draco sat at the desk, posture perfect as he unhooked his drawer and slid it open with an oiled squeak. He let his hands jump over Damien Greengrass' letter, which could wait, as he skimmed over thin air and instead lifted out his writing paper and _special ink_ with a crinkled sound of approval. Draco placed the materials down on the desk, slipping a sheet from the top, and brought his writing quill to ink, dipping it in heavily before letting the nib touch parchment.

 

_Dearest Harry,_

 

_I am writing concerning my undying love for you and I want to have sex with you and marry you and-_

 

Draco scrunched up the paper, annoyance furrowing his brow, as the normally articulate boy couldn't quite seem to put words to a page without sounding insane. He slammed the desk door close, paper igniting as he absent-mindedly cast _incendio_ , hoping to rid the world of his horrendous failure. He started anew.

 

_Dearest Harry,_

 

_I was wondering if you would like to begin a letter correspondence? I understand it might not be the right time for such a thing, but I am in love with you and-_

 

Crunch.

 

_Dear Harry,_

 

_Would you like to be penpals? We can share secrets and I can murder people for you if they bother you, and you could give me kisses in a strictly platonic way, I would never hurt you, I love you_

 

Crush.

 

_Harry,_

_beloved holder of my heart,_

_boy who I will always hold in the deepest regards,_

 

_I, a humble Draco Malfoy, am writing to inquire your amenability to a letter correspondence? It is wholly understandable and forgivable if you find yourself otherwise engaged, or, heaven forbid, still healing from that bastard who shall remain unnamed. It would endear me even further, if such a thing is possible, if you would like to write to me. I can promise no romantic advances if you are not comfortable and-_

 

Scrunch.

 

_Dearest Harry,_

 

_I was wondering if you would like to exchange letter correspondence. Its up to you, no pressure._

 

_Sincerely,_

_Draco Malfoy._

 

He reread over his latest draft, mouth scrunching like past failed attempts, as he tried to imagine how he came across. A bit desperate? Is that how a boy was meant to sound? Draco sighed deeply, knowing how his father would have instructed him with formality and poise. But Draco was simply trying to come across as human, a friend, not a spoilt stuck up pure-blood. He just wanted Harry to like him.

 

 _He'll never like you_ that harsh voice whispered in his ear, and Draco felt himself agreeing. He would never like _him_ , he may like the pretence he puts up, but never the shattered boy underneath. And Draco could understand why.

 

He was a monster.

 


	7. When I duel, Neville starves, and Drace converses with creeps - holidays are just the best

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hellooooo! I feel like I should stop apologising for such sparse and sporadic updates, but.. I'm sorry! I always hate it when writers take so long to update, but, I'm just not very reliable. Okay, well, thanks for sticking with this if you are! And thanks for the reviews, I do read them, even if I don't always reply. Haha I just don't know what to say.
> 
> Poll results:
> 
> Cedric & Viktor – 4
> 
> Fleur & Viktor – 1
> 
> Fleur & Cedric & Viktor – 1
> 
> All three striving for a polyamorous relationship – 2

 

Neville felt himself fall into the monotony of gardening, the feel of dirt on his calloused hands, the heat of the soil against his skin, the dig, the pull, the scrape, the lift, the balance, the hole, the bury, and then the glory of that incandescent stem shining in the morning sun. He felt a breath leave him like any wit he had managed to manifest that year, a half masticated sandwich lying dormant and lonely in the sun by his flexed feet. Neville sat back on his haunches, hamstrings burning from kneeling so long, a pleasant tan on his face from hours in the sunlight, rays of aimless sun refracting through the greenhouse glass panels. His fingers burned, and he was sure they would be red under all the layers of dirt and grime. Neville was as dirty and brown as the trees he so cherished and admired.

 

“ _Neville!_ ” A squawked voice cut sharply through his spine, and Neville felt his strings cut, and his muscles tense infinitely. It felt like there was a hand clenched in his stomach, squeezing and squeezing until he couldn't breathe, until he was going to be sick. His back straightened of its own accord, his hands fell away from the garden bed, his teeth slammed together with an ear splitting clack; he was home.

 

The hallowed halls of the Longbottom manor, aired out gardens, stuttering house elves with more to say than the heir, and large looming towers, adorned in vines and magical protection, circled Neville like a fairy ring. He felt dazzled, as if he was off balance, eyes drowned in a muggle torchlight that blinded him and forced him to stumble. He had fallen into the darkened valleys of routine, of wiping the sweat from the furrows in his brow, from unclenching his teeth as he realised the ache of a jaw that held in too much, of closing his eyes, smothering the chocolate brown of his iris, when the sight of his old and dilapidated heart grew too much for him.

 

Every step he took in this house was cautious, but made so much noise that it echoed like the screams of his parents through the halls. His footsteps followed his gran's with ease built from training and familiarity, and the paintings that never let their eyes fall from his prone and targeted form fell with disappointment, love, and apology. They had been in this hollow house longer than him, and yet never garnered enough sympathy or worldliness to know that the events within these bloodied walls were not acceptable; or not acceptable enough to contact the outside world.

 

The click and clack of Augusta's finely polished heels sent goosebumps along the deep ridges of his spine. That summer Neville barely ate, so nervous he was to face the Dining table. He could envision it now; the chairs tucked in properly, the subtext that hung as heavily as an eight year old Neville off the Northern bell tower, suspended by his Uncle's chapped wrists and merciless teeth that shone like a werewolf's open and endless jaw. Neville could close his eyes and remember the moment, of falling, of wondering if his magic would catch, of wondering if this last moment was his last. He could feel the grained and aged wood beneath his palms as he tried to push out his seat, as he used proper custom to excuse himself, as he fought down the dinner that pleaded its reappearance. The hairs on the back of his neck sprung to life, upright as if by forceful suction, tingles of unease and sadness prickling along his whole body.

 

Dinner was not a peaceful event. Although nothing was said, nothing was done, no one moved, no sound was made, except for the bereft clinks of cutlery, the audible sips and crunches between teeth and palate, and belligerent silence that screamed of unsettlement and misery. None was said, none was moved, none was done, but the memories of that dining hall were as palpable as the secrets branded into Neville's wrist. The stamp of House Longbottom with a pale pink scar tissue, quite different from the original weeping wound.

 

The brand.

 

There were old screams in this house, that still remained like ghosts, never quite moving on when they were meant to. If he paused, held his heart and breath quiet, and leaned his ear to the walls, he could almost hear them speak of the atrocities committed in this house. The ones that had caused the brave and stout Franklin Longbottom to have a spineless, weak, shaking son on the train to Hogwarts. If the walls could speak, Neville would not have to.

 

As he sat at that table, across from his hardened and mad uncle, knowing that he was not safe, Neville couldn't help but wonder over the coming of Hogwarts. It would not be long now, only a week or so, and he wondered how they would react to his diminished figure. Neville knew he had never been attractive, so to say. He had been pudgy and wide eyed and wimpy, but now he knew that he was tanned, and golden, and with muscles born of constant gardening. The callouses on his hands knew more words than him to explain how he felt, and he wondered if he held his hand up, towards Harry who was his only true friend, if he would understand what the holiday was like. In a house that was not a home, not really. He knew that Harry had once lived in a house like that, but he also knew that Harry was not of sound mind and might not even see Neville at all, let alone the scars on his palms.

 

“Eat something, Neville, you'll starve.”

 

His gran spoke sharply, her commanding tone rubbing into every crevasse of his body like sand and lotion on the beach. Neville stiffened further, feeling the grey eyes of Uncle on his face. He did not move, knowing that he could not eat here, in this room, with these people. Neville very carefully, so as not to disturb the atmosphere, picked up his knife and fork, resting them gently against the red meat before him. He cut into it with vigour, imagining how the animal was slaughtered, the blood that showed his gran liked it ' _rare_ ', that oozed out of the meat like a sponge, and the wide eyes that would be reflected within his own expression, that of a soon-to-be-killed beast. Or at least, the expression within him, not the blank and stone face he had on now.

 

He lifted the meat to his lips, feeling the rubbery and warm flesh against his skin. Neville paled, fell as white as a sheet, and slowly put the food back onto his perfectly cleaned plate. He didn't dare look over to his gran, knowing he could not trust her eyes not to provoke him to action, and simply breathed deep breaths, that touched the bottom of his lungs like a pair of grubby garden fingers.

 

He wondered what they would say when he returned to Hogwarts, when it was not normal for a boy to become so thin so quickly, in only two months. Neville wondered what they would say when he sat at dinner, at Hufflepuff, with Harry and Luna and Draco, and didn't touch his plate. He wondered what they would think of him, if they knew that he couldn't eat. He couldn't. He couldn't bare it. If they knew that this was the only way to live, the only way to... control something.

 

Neville felt the hunger in his stomach, and he felt it, and he acknowledged it, and he ignored it. It was there. It existed. It ached and complained and grumbled, it had been fed for so long that it didn't know how to do any different. But Neville would train it, would train himself, he would never be hungry again, he would... float. Above it. He wouldn't feel it. He would just sit there, with the eyes that scraped gouges into his skin, and let his food grow cold. Then he would stand up, tuck in his chair, and make his way to the garden, so that he could nourish the plants like he could not nourish himself. He would walk through nightfall, with stars twinkling above, like the twinkling eyes of his many ancestors in their portraits, and he would walk and walk and walk until the sun rose and the stars died and the light filled his being like a million choirs singing all at once. Neville would fly back to his room on the back of a phoenix, golden sparks showering him in new hope, shut his door, open the blades of his window, and let the sunshine in. Then he would stride over to his bed, stalk the prey which was calm sleep, and let his head rest against the softness of his pillow.

 

“Neville, aren't you going to eat something?”

 

He would stay silent as the echoes of his own screams rang true through the room. As the darkness of the night threatened to consume him. As his uncle's eyes never closed, he would sleep through it, never feel it, never be there. Neville would sit, at the table, the perfectly poised pure-blood heir, and never eat a thing.

 

…

 

_Egypt,_

_Sanctioned Postal Box No. 53,_

_23 rd of August, 1994,_

 

_Dearest Damien,_

 

_I was delighted to receive your response, it certainly made a dull summer more interesting, and I hope you receive my letter before your portkey leaves._

 

_It would be a delight for you to stop by then, in fact there is a Hogsmeade Weekend coming up that could be an appropriate time to meet. How is the third Saturday of next month, would you still be in England?_

 

_I am intrigued by your aforementioned tournament, I hadn't heard much about it, although that may be due to my own solitude at the manor rather than lack of knowledge in the public._

 

_My mother and father have been well, thank you for asking, and I hope you can say the same for your own. I had heard that your father was investing in a new architectural firm, I wish the business the best._

 

_How is working life treating you? Have you met any new people of interest?_

 

_My summer has been uneventful, mostly reading around the manor, flying, and talks with my mother. I do hope your holiday has been more interesting._

 

_Let this letter reach you in good health,_

 

_Sincerely,_

_Draconis Malfoy_

 

_Malfoy Manor._

 

Draco sent the letter off with an empty smile, the paper leaving his fingertips abruptly as Artemis took flight with a squawk. Something cracked a little within him as he sent his least refined and latest draft off to Damien Greengrass. He wondered what it said of the future that his father had demanded a renewed correspondence with all the Greengrass heirs.

 

He found himself sitting by the window, eyes pathetically hopeful as he longed for a response from Harry. Just a word would do, would tide him over until they could meet in blood and flesh once more like Diagon Alley, just a few stray sentences. It seemed peculiar, unnatural, and almost toxic, but every time he thought of that green eyed boy his breath was sent a flutter and his heart pounded in his chest. Draco leaned back in his chair, hand never leaving the window sill, grey eyes scanning the outside with a pervasiveness that was not unlike him, but was unnecessary.

 

Exhaustion dragged at his bones but he stayed up well into the night, clinging onto the hope of a reply. He found it pitiful how hopeful he was for even a response, but his isolating stay at the manor had taken more of a toll than normal. Draco's eyes slitted with sleep, and he continued to look outside with a waning interest.

 

In the distance he could see an owl coming towards him, and it was as if his whole body had been struck by an electric shock. He sat up properly, limbs tensing, eyes wide with glee as the familiar snowy owl's form flew closer than ever, a paper in its talons. Golden eyes analysed him as the bird landed on the sill, and he realised he must have gained at least a semblance of approval because the owl let him take the letter from her claws.

 

_Draco,_

 

_I would not mind sending letters. I don't know. Luna is here but it is very lonely here. Its so dark sometimes. And. I can't sleep well at all. I wanted to write about something good, but, I don't think I can, and I know this isn't a very good letter but I've never been very good at writing letters. And. I wouldn't mind letters._

 

_Harry._

 

It was covered in ink blots, scrawled writing, the occasional tear drop, and paper so yellow it may as well have been cheese, but Draco's heart melted nonetheless. He smiled a brilliant smile that caused Hedwig to hoot in derision, and scrambled around the room for a new piece of parchment and writing utensil. He desperately wanted to speak with the boy who made his heart throb in the most delicate and delicious of ways. Draco licked his lips slightly as he folded the letter like a sacred magical document, and gently placed it in his desk, shuffling papers around so Harry's letter could have a place of its own. He cast preserving charms, water and fire protection spells, and defensive hexes, only relaxing once he was certain that Harry's letter was completely safe.

 

Draco set to work on his reply, a new energy filling him, exhaustion forgotten like Damien's letter.

 

…

 

Harry balanced on the balls of his feet, legs creaking ominously as he stretched low to the ground with a graceful leap, lights flashing past him, his hair a wild monsoon in the windy terrain. He grimaced, a look of deep concentration scouring his face as he struck out, throwing all his weight and power into the room. A quick dash out of his vision and he struck air, his foe even quicker on their toes, and ever more confident. Harry was winded as a sharp blue light kicked him straight in the chest and sent him tumbling. The world turned and he blacked out for a second.

 

“Again.”

 

Harry groaned, half an order and half a parody of a plea. He rose, his muscles complaining as he pushed up off the ground, lifting himself once more. Luna gave him a wary glance and her body cooed 'we can take a break'. Harry's eyes stiffened more and growled 'in a real battle there are no breaks'. Luna's eyes seemed to droop like a flower in crystal moonlight as he moved back into battle pose, her breath evening out as outside thoughts left her and only the fight and the blood within her remained. Harry felt the graceful lift of her magic as her eyes flashed open and she smiled a lucid smile. He leapt forward once more, this time desperate for a win, but knew it unlikely. Luna had promised not to go easy on him afterall, and most of the spells he had memorised in third year seemed so lost to him after his recent dark foray into the past.

 

But, the summer was almost over, and Harry had to be prepared for a new dangerous year at school. Plus, he wouldn't mind if he were fit enough to impress Draco. The thought had him off balance and fear and shame filled him against his consent, he couldn't quite breathe and the walls seemed to sway into him slightly. Harry longed to use the Silas Technique, where he could pretend he was someone stronger, because ever since that day in Diagon and the deadly frightening hickey on his neck he hadn't quite trusted it. He tried to steady himself and work past the thoughts, but before he did Luna struck him down again, a foreign triumph gracing her lips.

 

She helped him up, and they waddled from the room together.

 

There was a duelling room in Grimmond Place. He and Luna loved to use it as they retrained themselves. It was long and oblong, and took up almost half of the third floor. The wall paper was dark and decrepit like all of the house, it rotted on the walls and flaked off like old mouldy skin. There was a slight pattern of the family crest, which held crows, white and red chequered stars, and a looming skull within its complex pattern. There was a duelling ring, a bench and staple for weaponry, and an assortment of comfortable seats for an audience. A lone painting hung on the wall, mad from isolation and fading watercolour work, and often hollered out nonsense such as “take the eagle to church” and “if Esmeralda saw your paraphernalia addiction!”. Luna seemed to think that _Sir_ Oswald Black-Noonan was a vessel for Sight, and Saw into the past and future but was stuck in the present.

 

Harry tended to doubt that, especially seeing as Oswald referred to Harry as a 'cumbersome filch!' which seemed both insulting to Filchs and Harrys.

 

They dawdled as they walked, no longer ill at ease in the dark room. If anything Harry sought comfort and sanctuary in it; he hadn't left Grimmond Place in almost a month, and it made him uneasy to consider leaving. Sirius seemed quite different, as they occasionally passed him in the kitchen or halls. He longed to leave the dark place, to bathe in sunlight, to exist out in the world, but he was shackled by his own fear of imprisonment, of being back with dementors. Harry had grown more comfortable with Sirius of late, especially after he had balanced out more and focussed on something instead of lying in bed all day. He felt safe in the dark place that held him, in Luna's trusting arms. He felt gay and carefree, playing the basics of the Occarina, cards with Luna, reading. He felt involved with the world once more.

 

It made him wonder if things could become good, if he could heal and become a person again.

 

Luna smiled sweetly to him and shuffled about the kitchen, her body murmuring something about 'hungry' and 'jam'. Harry sat down on the floor, watching her as she worked, tracing her graceful figure as she danced like he had once done. He hadn't cooked in a long time it seemed, hadn't touched a stove or a microwave. Certainly, it seemed that Luna had been cooking _for_ him.

 

All would be well, if not for the slight buzz of his magic that reminded him that he was wearing an array of glamours to hide his scars. They still remained. And today might just be a good day for him, a tolerable one. Harry was terrified of feeling that way again, of falling back into wanting to die. Only yesterday he had slit his wrists, the blood trickling down his arms, tears threatening to fall. He had let out dry sobs, and had scuttled away from Luna like a boy possessed when she had tried to embrace him.

 

Today was a good day, but like any other it couldn't last forever, and this light heartedness seemed ever so tenuous.

 

“Jam on toast, Lord Harry?”

 

…

 

**Draft 1**

_Place unknown._

_27 th of August_

 

_Dearest Harry,_

 

_How has your holiday been so far? I have had to deal with the infuriating nature of parents... My mother has deigned to speak with me, and I pretended to still be the same doll-like boy that I have always been. My father gave me my latest instructions for the school year, and asked me to continue correspondence with the Greengrass family, for a future mate I suppose. I assume Sirius Black has been a similar triviality?_

 

_I fully understand your difficulties with letter writing. I often find that I am too articulated/not child-like enough. It is understandably unnerving for some; that a fourteen year old speaks with such fluency and intellect. They prefer their young incompetent, inadequate, and unintellegent... like they desire their Ministry? Feel free to write to whatever capacity you deem yourself able, I will cherish the letters either way, as (a) correspondence with my beloved, (b) correspondence with anyone, i.e. a way to escape the monotony of summertime (being locked in my room for hours, with exception to exercise-time and consumption of breakfast, lunch, dinner, and supper) and communicate to another living soul._

 

_How have you been? I have been consistently worried for you, ever since your appearance of Silas Black, I have been made to wonder if you truly are of sound mind? I would love you either way, but, please tell me if there is any way that I can be of assistance. It burdens my every moment to think of you in pain._

 

_Are you excited for school? I heard from Damien Greengrass – my possible betrothed, (my 19 year old possible paedophile) – that there was a tournament occurring at Hogwarts next semester. Have you heard any news upon it? And, I do hope that you may avoid it this year._

 

_Yours,_

_forever,_

_Draconis Malfoy._

 

_Malfoy Manor._

_East wing._

 

Draco scowled as he reread over the letter – it was too posh, too devoted, and too articulate.

 

**Draft 2**

 

_Unknown location._

_27_ _th_ _of August._

 

_Dearest Harry,_

_How has your holiday been? I've had to deal with my parents... adults can be so droll can't they? I assume your guardian has been just as annoying?_

 

_Don't stress over the letters, I'm just glad that we can talk over summer break. I do get lonely sometimes at the manor. And I do miss you._

 

_How have you been? I admit, I've been a tad worried since we met in Diagon Alley. Luna seemed a little off, and I'm a little unsure over the Silas Black thing... You can talk to me if you need to._

 

_School is going to be soon. I'm excited because I'll get to see you and the gang again. It would also be nice to see Hogwarts again. I'm not so excited for school work, but, what can you do?_

 

_I've also heard there is a tournament going on at Hogwarts next year. Have you heard anything about that?_

 

_Sincerely,_

_Draco Malfoy._

 

_Malfoy Manor._

_East Wing._

 

Draco sighed. Now he sounded like an idiot. He needed to be... concise, interesting, titilating. Would Harry really want to fall in love with someone who complained about their parents and was nosy over his holiday?

 

**Draft 3**

 

_Unknown location._

_27 th of August._

 

_Dearest Harry,_

 

_How's your holiday been? I've gone a little stir crazy holed up in the Manor all this time, so there's no reason to worry over your own letter writing skills._

 

_Sincerely,_

_Draco Malfoy._

 

_Malfoy Manor._

_East Wing._

 

Draco let his head fall into his hands. It was so stressful. He _needed_ this letter to be perfect. What was he meant to say?

 

**Draft 4**

 

_Unknown location._

_27 th of August, 1994._

 

_Dearest Harry,_

 

_Never fear, letter writing is all nonsense either way. There's no 'right' way to do it. Rather, if you like, just write what is on your mind._

 

_I will lead by example: The manor has been very empty this summer, so I've been left alone a lot. Its not so bad, things could be worse. I get to go out on my broom and sip tea with mother, but it is awfully boring. How has your holiday been? From your visit in Diagon I'll bet its been of more interest than mine._

 

_School is in a mere four days! Fancy that, it seems like time passes so fast and I have no control over it. How long ago was it that I was a snobby little blonde standing in Madame Malkins and making atrocious attempts of friendship? We were little things then, weren't we. All bright eyes and barely concealed anxiety. I'm glad we've grown up now and can be a bit more comfortable with ourselves. I've always thought it was a real show of maturity when you left the Griffindors, you followed your own beliefs, and never let anyone tell you it was wrong..._

 

_Are you excited? I've heard whispers that there will be a tournament or something this year. I do hope its safe._

 

_Reply when you can._

 

_Best wishes,_

_Draco Malfoy._

 

_Malfoy Manor._

_East wing._

 

Draco sighed one last time, rather dramatically considering the circumstance, and sealed the letter into an envelope. He clucked his mouth lightly in an affectionate gesture to Artemis, as he tied the letter to his owl's scaly leg. It was as good as it was going to get.

 

…

 

_Malfoy manor, east wing._

_31 st of August_

 

_Dear draco,_

 

_thank you for the letter. It was lovely to hear from you! I'll take your advice, I spose, since it is only letters between friends anyway._

 

_I was a little uneasy here at first, its quite dark and dreary, but I've gotten used to it and am almost attached now. Its almost cosy, which is a weird thing to say when a boggart jumped out at me only yesterday, but it is. I'm glad we can send letters, even if it only to keep your boredom at bay, i'd never really considered how lonely it might be at a large manor._

 

_My holiday has been rather dull really. Just stayed at the house with luna, played cards and the like. Maybe a few rounds of duelling. Sirius has been okay, i'm not really scared of him anymore, but its still makes me a little uneasy when I bump into him in the hall. He's very big.. and male._

 

_It'll be good to see you and neville again. Have you heard from neville? I'm a bit worried, especially because of what he's told me of his gran in the past. I did invite him to stay with me, but he seemed very... determined to stay with his gran. I hope he's okay._

 

_..thanks. Didn't know about the tournament, I hope I can stay uninvolved this time._

 

_See you tomorrow._

_Love harry._

_< 3_

 

…

 

 


	8. When I'm moody as hell - and no, don't say that to me, or I'm throwing my trunk at your face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: (*that moment when you realise that you only write your sad fic when you're feeling sad*) Also, its good that I'm not sad as much, but my update schedule suffers for it :/, also, *sadness*. Sometimes it feels like writing this is catharsis, I put so much of myself in this Harry, this chapter was really... similar. Also, sorry that this is really short, next chapter should be a lot longer and juicier.

Well. This was fucked.

 

Harry catapulted his trunk at the wall and stormed off into the other room, he was huffing like a dragon with chest congestion. For _fucks sake_ , why was he even doing this? His ears were puffing smoke like a factory's nozzle, and his feet banged the floor louder than cannon fire. Why _had this ever been considered_ to be a good idea?! Honestly.

 

Blonde hair edged through the door way, and Luna shot him a cheeky smile; she just didn't understand the _serious nature_ of this event.

 

“Lord Harry, it would appear your trunk has gone sailing without aid of water nor boat.”

 

In other words, she felt like taking the micky out of him. Harry boiled, but held his tongue. He would not get angry at Luna just because of this _unjustified mess of epic proportions_.

 

Apparently.

 

Apparently.

 

_Dear sir/madam,_

 

 _it has arrived to the attention of the professors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, that you have not attended the appropriate amount of classes to pass. That is, the previous semester_ **Harry Potter** _has been absent for_ **¾** _of allocated scholarly classes. Thus, for the sanctity of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, said student,_ **Harry Potter** , _is obligated to attend set amount of_ **Third Year** _classes, to qualify for_ **Fourth Year** _. Find enclosed your book list for the year:_

 

[ _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 3_](http://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/The_Standard_Book_of_Spells,_Grade_3) by [Miranda Goshawk](http://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/Miranda_Goshawk)

[ _Unfogging the Future_](http://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/Unfogging_the_Future) by [Cassandra Vablatsky](http://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/Cassandra_Vablatsky) (if attending [Divination](http://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/Divination))

 _I_[ntermediate Transfiguration](http://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/Intermediate_Transfiguration) by [Emeric Switch](http://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/Emeric_Switch)

[ _The Monster Book of Monsters_](http://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/The_Monster_Book_of_Monsters) (if attending [Care of Magical Creatures](http://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/Care_of_Magical_Creatures))

[ _Numerology and Grammatica_](http://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/Numerology_and_Grammatica) (if attending [Arithmancy](http://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/Arithmancy))

[ _Home Life and Social Habits of British Muggles_](http://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/Home_Life_and_Social_Habits_of_British_Muggles)by [Wilhelm Wigworthy](http://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/Wilhelm_Wigworthy) (if attending [Muggle Studies](http://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/Muggle_Studies))

[ _Spellman's Syllabary_](http://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/Spellman%27s_Syllabary) (if attending [Study of Ancient Runes](http://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/Study_of_Ancient_Runes))

[ _The Essential Defence Against the Dark Arts_ ](http://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/The_Essential_Defence_Against_the_Dark_Arts) _by_ [ _Arsenius Jigger_ ](http://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/Arsenius_Jigger)

_Sincerely,_

**Articold Frennings – Organisational Manager of Absentees in the Wizarding World, and One In Charge of Consequences for Such.**

 

Luna giggled as Harry glared at the damning crinkled mess of parchment in his grip. _Merlin's saggy ballsack_. Was this what his life had become? Was he only a parody of himself? _Truly_? Luna quipped, her own trunk packed and leant dutifully by her side,

 

“Think of it this way: we'll be in the same classes.”

 

Harry sighed deeply, as if the world had just plopped down onto the arch of his shoulders, the anger draining out of him like old rotten fruit pulp. It oozed into a small pond on the floor. He nodded his head, and levitated his trunk towards him. This certainly wasn't the way he had hoped for his year to begin with.

 

But nothing ever went his way.

 

The rage boiled under his skin, but he kept it contained. He buried it deep inside himself so even he couldn't feel it. For so long he had felt nothing, then been hit with heady sadness, and now it felt as if a new norm were beginning; that of anger and hot-headed little candour. Part of him wished he could return to how he was, the beautiful apathy, the delicious despair, the sleeping for days on end with his eyes closed in protection for the world. This house had become his safety, his cocoon, and now he was abandoning that warm embrace for the dangers of the outside world. Harry knew that if he truly desired it, if he needed and needed with all his heart, that Luna would allow him to stay. She would remain along side him, they would continue on as they had; with late-night duels, spicy conversations over certain _blondes_ in Slytherin, fast and titillating games of Go Fish, and obviously the entertaining top-notch productions of ' _Harry and his Ocarina_ '. Alas, it was not to continue, for just as Harry had changed so must the world and his life – no matter how much he longed to extant within these tenebrous gloomy walls, he had to move on.

 

Bubbling anger settled in his gut and Harry bowed his head in realisation; things were shifting whether he sanctioned them to or otherwise. This knowledge did not allay all fears and discomforts, but a definite crystallised heart _did_ lay back and relax upon hearing the thought; _I must change_.

 

As Luna hoisted Harry's trunk over her shoulder and saluted a morose Sirius Black (who would “miss you every day, write me a letter every day”, his wild Black eyes searching theirs for promise), before swivelling her head until it aligned with Harry's with a cheeky brazen grin, he verged the possibility that this year wouldn't be so horrific after all.

 

…

 

Harry was hiding. Well, he wasn't, but at the same time he was ( _maybe?_ ). He was... _purposefully not-hiding_ secluded in the tiny storage compartment at the end of the train's hallway. It was small and cramped and his breath tasted hot and tangy under his skin as he curled up there. He kept thinking that he could just get up and walk out into the world and be okay, but it wasn't that simple, and somehow in a haze of fear and the feel of hot sweaty youthful bodies all clamouring against him as he wore his Silas disguise (of course not _actually_ being Silas because Silas was dangerous and lustful and everything he wasn't), it curled under his skin and he lost the ability to think. Harry felt as if he had tumbled over the edge of a waterfall, legs locked tight as if they were one, as if it were only a mermaid's tail chaining him down. There were moments of freefall, where he caught Luna's eye, and her body spasmed out with _its okay just breathe stay calm its okay_ , her supplicating hands reaching towards him for comfort, for embrace, and even though he'd spent the whole holiday with her somehow they disentangled in that moment, they became parallel, and her hands became _reaching dangerous hands_ and Harry's body became sharp and solid, ramrod straight. He flattened himself against the hull of the train, lost Luna in the crowd, and smuggled himself into this storage compartment, his own head and thoughts ringing in his ears like deafening bells who gave no mercy.

 

And he knew, he knew, _okay_ , that nothing would happen, even if he was submerged in the crowd. Luna was there. Draco was near as well (Merlin he had missed Draco for some reason, maybe it was the smell of his hair as they had embraced lake-side, and Luna's hair was blonde but it wasn't _Draco_ blonde) and Draco had killed the Dursleys for him, maybe not Dudley but who cared about Dudley, Draco would have protected him, Draco would have embraced him and whispered to him, and been _perfect_. He _knew_ all of that, but in that moment it was less about sense and more about a rawness hanging in his chest, this wild animal child who was still scared of his own shadow. He lost the ability to breathe, even though that made no sense, one cannot simply _lose_ the ability to breathe, but it happened, and he was panting and gulping down mouthfuls of air like he was drowning, yet nothing was reaching into his chest.

 

His body shook in tremors, and he clung himself close, wrapping his arms over his locked bent legs. Harry buried his head into his lap, shielded by the wall of his legs, and tried to force his chest to breathe. If someone came into the storage space in that moment ( _please no_ ) they would only see a head of raven hair tucked into some poor soul's limbs. Harry breathed and breathed and breathed until he felt like his throat was sanded red raw, but nothing seemed to help. Not even pretending to be Silas, who wouldn't be freaking out in the first place made a dent of difference, and it took a long time for him to realise that it was just him, shivering, curled up, on the floor, _alone_ , safe. He chanted the mantra in his brain until it made sense, until it interlocked with his panicked mind, _safe alone safe alone safe alone_ , and eventually it sunk in.

 

And the urge, this urge that he hadn't wanted to pursue, the urge that grew, to _attempt_ again, even if he knew he wouldn't die, just for the pain, it had swelled in his chest like the crescendo of an orchestra. Booming it had held him, this _feeling_ that he ought to _feel_ again, that he _needed_ the distraction, and it didn't matter that he was breathed calm and steady like the chugging of a train's steam engine, that terror still hung like a chandelir of guilt in his rib cage, and Harry _itched_ to _hurt_. Which didn't make sense. He had never heard of someone hurting himself just for the _pain_ , it was illogical, people only did that for death, _pain_ was uncomfortable. He shouldn't _want_ the pain. And yet, there was this terrifying certainty inside him which yearned for a distraction, for the familiar feel of knife on wrist, and he had just done it so easily. If Luna ever found out she would think he was just _attempting_ again, somehow that seemed less shameful than just doing it for _pain_. Wouldn't that just be freakish? To hurt for pain? Wouldn't that make him defective? And, even if Luna never found out, _Harry_ would know, he would wake every morning and stare in the grubby mirror of the house elf kitchen and he would see looking back at him a shadow of a boy who wanted _pain_. He had always hated pain. The pain of his Uncle. The pain of emotions. How did it make any sense that _pain_ could be a relief? And, if he hurt himself without the intent to die, would he still be spared the scars, or would they remain as evidence of his sin? He couldn't. He couldn't, no matter if everything screamed at him to ease this pressure – he would just need to pretend it wasn't there. He would just siphon it down, funnel it away, fling it from himself, and then there would be nothing shameful about himself any longer. Only the purity of longing for death, none of this _putrid_ wish for _relief_. Death was the only relief, Harry could not forget that.

 

Harry quietly exited the end carriage, squeezing past spare luggage and magical equipment. He knew Luna would have his school stuff; he knew he could play this off.

 

…

 

 

 


	9. When I show off my ocarina skills - and Dumbledore shows off his mental failings

Harry slipped out of the luggage compartment. He walked lackadaisical, acting for all the world as if he had not just collapsed into a fit of hysterics from a mere glimpse of a crowd. A few curious students side eyed him as he sashayed past, pretending for any interested enough to note that he had not been the slave of a panic attack less than two minutes previous. No, Harry was doing... great.

 

“ _EEK!_ ”

 

Eyes wrenched open in panic and Harry screeched like a banshee as _something_ grappled him into a compartment. He fought tooth and nail, probably dislodging a still tender scar or two (they took a while to fade if he hadn't had the intention of dying from them) as he battled against this nameless being.

 

“Harry, its me!”

 

Harry and Draco were wrapped up together, loose like soggy pasta. Harry whispered in a hoarse voice,

 

“ _Oh_.”

 

Luna was by the window of the compartment, sun shining through the slats and illuminating her hair so it appeared golden and mesmerising. Neville hadn't arrived yet, but there was a spare seat marked out for him clearly by the absence of luggage/Draco/piles of sweets (Luna had swindled some in a black market trade with a Second Year when Harry was off at the back of the train breathing into the metaphorical paper bag).

 

The door clicked shut loudly. Harry was made aware of the fact that Draco was _still_ embracing him, and he coughed quite pointedly as the walls started to curl in around him. His heart began to thunder, his breath began to stifle. The blonde sniffed his hair once, eyes a volcanic grey, but begrudgingly shuffled over to sit opposite Luna. He was free. There was a look in Draco's eye that told Harry if he sat next to Luna he would most likely die an unfortunate and untraceable death. Like the Dursleys.

 

(even though it was impossible for him to die)

 

There was another, unrecognisable to Harry, look in Draco's eye that pledged his eternal allegiance and love. But, hey, easily missed.

 

The raven headed boy shuffled in beside him. The air was suddenly awkward and stuffy, he felt like there were branded imprints of Draco's hands on his skin where they had touched. Harry broke the ice, since Luna was off in fairy land and Draco was staring into his face with a deep unnerving intensity, he looked a bit wild as if the holiday had unhinged him,

 

“Did you have to tug me so _hard_?”

 

He groused, in a faux whine. Draco's face relaxed at the tone, shoulders rolling back, and he quipped slyly,

 

“Knowing you, you wouldn't have noticed otherwise.”

 

Harry gasped, holding his hand to his mouth like a fair maiden who was _most offended_ , and chirruped,

 

“Oh, Mr. Malfoy, _how dare you slander me so_!”

 

Luna murmured dreamily at the edge of her seat. She currently remained ensconced in a familiar embroilment with the window – apparently there was something very offensive about the colour pink on the first of September which the window took offence to, but Luna was “ _capsizing a nonentity tradition”_ in her own words. Harry remembered her detailing it to him just before they left, her eyes alight with the abandon of her own stories.

 

“Lord Harry is quite unobservant.”

 

Now Harry gained the sneaking suspicion that his friends were ganging up on him in the meanest of ways. An inside joke. _How obscene_.

 

He did the only mature action possible, and, succinctly summed up his point of view.

 

“Harry, stop sticking your tongue out.”

 

Neville playfully cajoled as he entered the compartment. Harry replaced his tongue in its rightful home, a blush on his cheeks. Anyone could have seen him acting like a fool, and for some reason he didn't want that. He decided he was being a bit weird today. Luna swivelled around as Neville slid the door shut, the wheels whirring like that of a muggle computer, and her eyes narrowed.

 

“You look good Neville.”

 

There was a very purposeful lack of emphasis on any of her words. The statement just rolled out of her. Smooth.

 

It was true though, Harry thought to himself, his eyes roving Neville's lean figure without control. His friend had never been _ugly_ , per say, but neither had he been of romantic interest. Neville was tanned, his skin exotic and hardened, as if crackled in the sun. But it wasn't overkill, he hadn't endured the whole grape to sultana transformation. Neville was a little like Charlie Weasley. He was solid, outlined, there was substance behind his eyes and in his muscles. A weird swooping feeling corralled in his stomach, and he was quickly tugged on the arm by an oddly acting Draco. He stared down at the junction where his friend's hand was linked into his elbow, and back up into grey stormy eyes. Draco seemed irate for some reason. Loose, but not in a good way.

 

Luna pierced Neville with a long look, as if she were dissecting him, slowly removing pieces of his skin to glimpse what laid underneath. She held out a hand like an offering. Within the hand was a ruler shaped lolly covered in sparkles that apparently made your eyes shimmer,

 

“Here.”

 

Neville shook his head with a wry smile that felt a little off, and rejected the gift,

 

“I'm not hungry. But thank you.”

 

Harry could somewhat understand. Luna hadn't dug into her glittering satchel to pull out the long sweet, so it had simply been hiding in wait in her clammy pubescent grip. She was _Luna_ , she was a girl, but girls get sweaty too. Harry probably wouldn't have accepted the sweaty sweet either. But, at the same time, there was something _off_ about the interaction. He couldn't quite place it. Neville seemed coiled too tight.

 

Draco watched the transaction curiously, before settling into his desired topic with veiled relish,

 

“How was everyone's break?”

 

The question was directed to everyone, but it was clear to Luna and Neville, from Draco's hungry expression, that it was actually a very personally addressed sentiment meant for Harry. At Draco's warning flash of feral eyes they stayed silent, especially Neville who bore the brunt of Draco's ire, and Harry shrugged at the oddness that was his friends. He hadn't quite noticed the dangerous weight in the room. But at everyone's unending silence, he felt like he had to talk. The final prompt was when Draco poked him in the shoulder like an indignant puppy, so he rattled on a little,

 

“Uh, well we were staying with that dogman I met in the woods, the convict guy. Luna and me, as you know. In a Black Estate or something. Lots of Go fish, we didn't leave much. Um...”

 

Harry was reminded of the first month or so of him crying and wailing under the blankets, terrified and frozen in the memories of the past. He thought of Sirius and his broken heart. Then he considered Silas Black's actions in Knockturn, the heat on his neck, the sticky sensation in his veins, the lack of control or reason. Before finally settling on his learning of the Ocarina.

 

His hand slipped into his pocket, and he brought out the instrument. It felt smooth and supple in his grip, willowy, light. Harry shuffled nervously, before saying,

 

“I learnt the ocarina.”

 

Draco's eyes widened in curiosity, and Harry must have hallucinated because he could have sworn he saw his friend lick his lips... No matter. Harry must be dreaming up imaginary things. For one minute the fire burned in his eyes, and the next Draco became only encouraging smiles and gentle words prodding him to play.

 

Luna watched on with fondness and knowledge. Neville seemed vacant, distant, but maybe that was just the lingering effects of the holiday. It seemed to have had a weird effect on their friendships.

 

…

 

The cramped table housed all four of them, squished up like sardines to the consternation of many disgruntled yet generous Hufflepuffs. Rumours had substantially faded since last year, ever since Ron's many stories had been lined up together and inspected for veracity. It turned out that knocking one down had a domino effect, and Harry's ex best friend's word was as good as mud. It didn't mean everyone was suddenly fine and dandy with him, there were a lot of questions and doubts, most surrounding his sudden and unexpected pseudo death, but it was mostly old news, and Hufflepuffs had begrudgingly welcomed him even when he was a suspected Junior Dark Lord, so they were very fine with him now.

 

Due to his new position as “maybe not evil, we don't know”, as he had overheard from three Fifth Years while walking up to the thestrals that Luna had pointed out, many of the numerous and thrumming First Years had approached him with wide eyed fanaticism. His shrugs and disquieting looks had not scared them off, but Draco bearing his teeth and growling had... worked to a degree. However, the new rumour going around since the train had arrived, was that Draco was a werewolf, bitten by Remus Lupin last year (apparently Hermione Granger had discovered it and sold his story to the Prophet, so he had been kicked out by proxy of public opinion pressuring Dumbledore), and that he'd forced Harry to be his “werewolf mate or whatever, I think that's a thing.” Weirdly enough, Draco hadn't dissuaded anyone of this notion, but Harry decided it was most likely due to him not concerning himself with public opinion. He was a _Malfoy_ , why would he _care_ about a bunch of teenagers' thoughts on him?

 

Either way, sitting huddled up wasn't doing much to avert the crowd from Harry, especially since Draco was bunched up the closest next to him. His breath was hot on Harry's neck. He shivered, he couldn't word the feeling of it, and shifted a little closer to Cedric Diggory, the Hufflepuff on his other side.

 

“Oh, hi there Harry.”

 

Cedric seemed nice enough, if not a little gormless. Harry waved in a non answer, but it seemed like it was enough, because Cedric just gave him a brilliant smile, eyes flicking to something behind Harry, before he settled back onto talking to his fellow Hufflepuffs. Draco may or may not have growled, but Harry was starting to think he was hearing voices or something. Why would Draco growl at him?

 

“Lord Harry, I have sensed a succulent aura in the hall.”

 

Harry nodded to Luna, not entirely sure what she expected him to do with that information.

 

Mostly he was just focusing on his own hands in his lap, the breath inside his chest, and the thundering pounding in his head. It was a wee bit panic-worthy to be the centre of attention of a fickle school. He closed his eyes and breathed out slowly. Its just one moment in his life.

 

...What would Silas do?

 

Harry's eyes opened wide, and he smiled slyly at Luna, his heart calming down to a normal tempo and breath quieting. He'd just be Silas for a little while, and there would be no flirting or anything, so nothing _untoward_ would occur like last time. He'd _control_ it, this time.

 

“Succulent aura, ay? Could it be these fine individuals waiting for their dinner?”

 

A few people shifted at the tone change, but mostly Harry's ad lib shift of mind remained unnoticed. He was incognito, it seemed.

 

Luna watched him with intrigue,

 

“Why, yes, Lord Harry, that is an interesting proposal. Let me ask this chair.”

 

Harry had a nagging feeling that Luna was becoming more unhinged as she grew older. Lately she had begun to insist that furniture was sentient. Well, _more sentient_. Luna was, well, she was becoming _loony_.

 

Draco whispered beside him, his eyes cool and centred,

 

“Is Luna alright?”

 

He seemed different somehow. Harry couldn't quite place it, but Draco had been acting different the whole day. It was most likely something occurring in the holiday, but it would be hateful to jump to conclusions. In reply Harry leaned against him, and whispered,

 

“I think so.”

 

Draco went cross eyed as Harry came closer. They were very close. Harry realised this, reappraised the situation, and inched back a few seats.

 

A stray Hufflepuff fell off at the end with an affronted squawk, before standing up and marching over to the Teacher's Table at the front. Harry didn't notice, but Neville did. However, Neville was keeping a low profile, more focused on avoiding the advances of a blonde Hufflepuff called Hannah who's eyes had become keen and intrigued since he'd lost weight. So, Neville didn't notify Harry of the changing events.

 

Luna chuckled into her hand at the scene, before returning to the business of understanding the brand new aura. Harry grinned charmingly, in that Silas way of his, but Draco seemed uneasy at his reaction and didn't meet his eyes.

 

“Attention Students.”

 

The hall quietened down. Harry slid back over, but not close enough to touch. Neville thanked pagan gods above for sparing him from blonde witches. Luna nodded, and kept an eye out for “lightning showmen”. Draco's ears perked, and he let his disgrace leave him. There were truths Harry would just have to accept sooner or later, but he _could_ and _would_ be patient enough to wait.

 

Dumbledore stood, looming and grandiose behind the podium. He seemed to have abandoned his normal genial act. Instead there were bolts of lightning in his eyes. The newly joined magic practitioners shivered in their seats, they had been fed tales of benevolence but all that they received were power and doubt.

 

“Welcome to our latest year at Hogwarts, young and old, I greet you home. This year there have been some revisions of old rules, enacted by ministerial officers in the hopes of equity and justice. First, the House assigned is the House you must eat at, sleep within, and discourse with. Interhouse friendships _are_ allowed, but due to recent circumstances have become more hassle than hope. No student may “sleep with the elves” any longer. Assigned lessons must be attended to a certain degree or the child will be detained from gaining their latest grading – an example of this is Harry Potter, he was remiss of attending the necessary amount of classes, and despite his Outstanding marks in the end of year finals, is being held back to Third Year.”

 

Whispers broke out across the hall. Harry felt his eyes crystallise as the words crashed over him. He knew what this was. He was becoming an example. He was becoming a symbol. Suddenly, his proximity to Draco and Luna, his sheer presence at Hufflepuff, gained gravity. The moment solidified. Someone had grabbed his hand under the table, he didn't know who it was, but he held on, squeezing for dear life, trying to breathe.

 

“Students recommended counselling are expected to attend the prescribed placements. We have many qualified teachers, who, if spotting issues, will intervene. Our student's safety is of the utmost importance. If you would like to dispute such counselling or detentions, please contact your Head of House or myself, and your claim shall be investigated if possible. Second, the Quidditch Championship is cancelled for this year, there shall be no Quidditch matches or any gifting of the Quidditch Cup. The Quidditch Pitch is officially Out Of Bounds, treat it as you would the Forbidden Forest, and any students caught on the Pitch or flying without supervision, shall be punished in due course.”

 

Agonised roars swirled over the students. Quidditch being cancelled was an outrage, and many of the more fervent fans banged their fists on the table and shook their heads in intense disappointment. Harry sat back, absorbing the information that counselling sessions with Snape would become compulsory. The hand in his grip loosened, but he kept holding on.

 

“Third, this year I have a very special announcement. Hogwarts shall be hosting the Triwizard Tournament, and consequentially two other schools; The Durmstang Institute, and Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. We shall treat our privileged guest with the respect and honour they deserve and-”

 

In that moment lightning struck. Faces were illuminated in silver streaks. A broiling fear rumbled under the tables. The candles flickered, and the door slammed open.

 

Luna whispered, her eyes alight with wonder and presence,

 

“Lightning showman has come.”

 

Out from the door hobbled a mangled man. Dumbledore's silence was emphasis enough for this moment. It felt like the world had frozen, all but the creaking of a wooden leg on stone floor. A single pilot's goggle, detached from the other, was fastened to a glass eye. It spun and shrieked, catching student's in its sight.

 

“Ah, this is my fifth announcement. Professor Alastor Moody shall be joining us in Defence Against The Dark Arts this year. Please give him a warm welcome.”  
  


No one clapped. The hall was as silent as the dead. The mangled man gave a winsome grin, but he was about as appealing to them as a skeleton to the starving. All bones and no meat. All fear and no tenderness.

 

Harry leaned over to Draco, whispered,

 

“Who is it?”

 

Draco looked at him funny,  
  


“An old Auror, a few screws too loose and a few spells too easily spoken. He was kicked from the Aurors, but you don't need qualifications or sanity to teach.”

 

Harry looked down, his face burning scarlet as he realised they were holding hands. His eyes flickered up to Draco's, but the boy wasn't moving nor was he showing acknowledgement. As Harry left his hand there the blush remained.

 

A wave of whispers overtook the hall as the newest professor made his way to his seat, like birds flocking up into the sky, rising out into the air. Luna wrinkled her nose and elbowed Neville,

 

“Sheesh, some people need to clean there auras, am I right?”

 

Neville gave her the most utterly perplexed look he could manage, before nodding along.

  
“An untidy aura is like an untidy garden, the weeds get you.”

 

Luna looked thoughtful for a second, before agreeing,

 

“Maybe I misjudged you.”

 

Then, she turned back to the assembly, and Neville was left with his thoughts. His plate lay untouched, but it was a dramatic enough evening that no one noticed. Say thank you for small mercies.

 

“Now, a few rules about the Triwizard Tournament. Firstly, no one under seventeen may enter. Secondly, the use of dragon hide wear is-”

 

…

 

As Harry returned to Griffindor Tower, morose but plotting his way to escaping this fate, he ran into a bedraggled looking Ron Weasley and remembered something...

 

Didn't he have a Revenge List to complete?

 


	10. When I feel like a cool kid - because Draco is holding my hand

“Oh, what a _joyous day_!”

 

Luna crooned sweetly, stroking long lanky fingers through a blushing Neville's hair. Draco watched them, as if observing a train wreck, with the utmost fascination. He asked, tentative,

 

“So... are you dating now, or something?”  


Luna nodded dreamily, whilst Neville shook his head. Draco let out a huff of confusion; if these two couldn't even agree amongst themselves how was he meant to have any clue whatsoever of the truth? Luna tilted her head to the side,

 

“Consort Draco, have patience, Lord Harry will wait for you.”

 

Draco felt his face flush with red, an unMalfoyish gesture that garnered him Neville's befuddled attention, and in _that_ moment of _all_ the moments Harry stumbled into the room with the grace of a drunken wombat. He lifted a hand into the air, triumphant and apparently haggard, and rasped,  
  
“Eureka! I've figured it out.”

 

Draco leapt forward, placing soothing hands on Harry's back which the boy promptly flinched off, and led him down into the large round table they were seated around. Luna, upon discovering this handy room for meeting, declared them the “knights of the round table” - she was very pleased by her “aha” moment even if the rest of the “knights of the Cerberus” just stared long and hard nonplussed. A droopy dopey eyed house elf teleported beside them and placed down a platter of a bread and jam before any of them could splutter a “that's not necessary.” Luna hummed and gnawed on a slice, waving at the table with regal grace as she had begun to do recently, trying to imitate long gone Lords of the Merlin Era,

 

“The round-table says the house elves desire to feed us if we're intruding on their property, a trade off.”  


Neville watched her curiously as she shoved an entire slice of bread into her mouth and swallowed in one go. He felt as if he were watching a snake devour the entirety of an antelope, horns and all, she took no prisoners, and he could see the indentation of bread sliding down her throat. It was brilliantly horrific. She offered him a slice, but he shook his head politely. Luna murmured,

 

“No walls have seen you eat for two days.”

 

Neville stared at her, wide eyed, and replied,

 

“I... erm, have been busy.”

 

Luna dumped a slice of bread with jam onto his lap. Neville looked down at it for a long unfathomable moment, before lifting it to his lips at her urging. Luna tapped his lips, causing him to turn a delightful shade of violet, as if demonstrating which orifice to shove the morsel into. Neville ate slowly and carefully whilst Luna's eyes never left his stilted movements.

 

During their conversation Harry and Draco had been sat side by side, watching as if it were some strange movie they couldn't understand. A French film with no subtitles, a romance with cheesy music and a vat of fondue de Savonyarde between them to snack on. Harry whispered to Draco, an itch under his skin at their proximity but also for popcorn, he was getting cravings for the cooked kernels like nothing else, except maybe a certain ponce’s lips...

 

“Have I just not been around to notice their relationship?”

 

Draco murmured back, “Nope, it happened overnight.”

 

Neville, blushing furiously, returned the conversation to its rightful direction, jam a faint trace on his lips. Luna overtly inspected his strawberry jam beard, dabbing a finger at the substance and licking it as if testing its quality. Neville darkened fifty shades and circumvented further embarrassment,

 

“So, Harry, you wanted to meet up?”

 

Ever since their reallocation to proper Houses, away from the elves' hospitable arms and into the rowdy mess of Griffindor, Ravenclaw and Slytherin respectively, they hadn't had the chance to meet as often. Especially since Draco had begun to nag Harry to actually attend classes. The blonde boy had decided Dumbledore would stubbornly never allow Harry to graduate if he continued to truant, and he wanted Harry to graduate so that they could get some sickeningly sweet cottage somewhere and live out the rest of their days _not_ doing school work. Or, as he had _actually_ told Harry, and not the Mental Harry who he practiced sexual fantasies and romantic rendez-vous propositions on, (purposely not mentioning eloping or any romantic endeavours of any way, shape or form) that perhaps if he behaved well they'd let him reach Fifth Year at the same time as Draco, and they could keep the same class schedule again. Which would make things incredibly simple and easy to follow, or in Draco’s mind, Harry would be easier to follow and keep track of and keep safe and _ohmyMerlinareyouokay?_ squealed the concerned mother hen that frequented Draco’s heart.

 

Harry, bored the first time experiencing of Third Year, definitely found it awfully tedious the second time around. Sure, he could sit with Luna occasionally, but mostly the Third Years stared at him gormless, as they had not yet built up immunity to the Harry Potter Fame Plague. It was eerie to be constantly watched, and he lacked the novelty the Wizarding World had given him in First Year as a counterbalance. He felt, most of the time, like his every move was being scrutinised. No peace. Ever. To make matters worse, the newest Defence Teacher was dead set on insinuating Harry had survived the Killing Curse every lesson. Professor Moody held no patience for subtlety, and instead barrelled through class referencing the untimely demise of Harry's parents every five minutes. The other day they'd been in a discussion concerning the half-life of a Wendigo, and Professor Moody had swerved the conversation entirely with a “... _and_ just as Harry Potter, in the class with us today, has survived death, so have some who have encountered the notorious Wendigo.” Ginny Weasley, the youngest of the Weasley brood, had simultaneously initiated the creepiest game every put up for production and most definitely vetoed by any sensible board game companies, of stalking him from class to class; he had the most horrid premonition that she was beginning a fan club with Colin Creevey. Oh horror horror. And, worst of all was that “therapy” – if  one would dare call it that – with Snape had started again. He didn't even want to _think_ about this so called “therapy”, he broke out in hives by just _contemplating_ Snape's greasy hair and the curled unlit wick of his venomous mouth.

 

Harry suddenly had the urge to punch Potions professors in the face, and for popcorn as well.

 

Long story short, he hadn't seen Draco in three days, and _no_ he didn't miss the blonde twit, but sometimes he liked to _see_ him. It felt safe, okay? And he had felt those molten grey eyes this morning begging him for a solution to this madness across the hall, Pansy Parkinson had been attempting to shoulder up close to the Malfoy scion and clearly he was drowning in her _obsessive_ behaviour. And no, Harry was not _jealous_. Not _at all_. What even is jealousy? He’d never heard that word before in his whole entire life so _shut up_.

 

Anyway, Harry had finally come up with a solution.

 

He leant over the table and beckoned everyone closer, a wicked smirk painted on his lips.

 

“Yes, I've come up with the perfect plan! Now, we all know that Dumbledore's passwords are sweet related, so in order to break into his office we need...”  


/

 

Plan TNJ (totally not jealous) or (this new job) or (Time is Now for Jeopardy) was enacted. Neville, faint as he was from not eating in many days, was left at home base to snack on stray pieces of toast. Luna, fretful wildcard that she was, remained behind with her could-be no-one-knows-for-sure boyfriend, force-feeding him copious amounts of cooked bread and pulped fruit.

 

So, it was the two of them; Harry and Draco. And, _no just no_ , Harry had _not_ orchestrated one-on-one time with his... friend, okay? Give him a break. It made perfect sense. Draco was the best fighter of their friendship group (and for your information it was _not_ a syndicate, no matter how many times Luna insisted), he oozed intelligence, smarm (chicken parm?), and possessed the ability to actually follow the plan and not go off on jam-related tangents like the rest of the group.

 

It was only a bonus that Draco had a protective streak a mile wide, and liked to express his completely platonic puppy-dog concern with hand-holding, and his hands were super warm and Harry was getting tingles all down his arm, as if fireworks were going off in his stomach, and it _sounded_ dangerous, and not entirely pleasant, but it _was_ , it _was_ , it was lovely, like hiccupping up glittering rainbows, and sunshine, and beautiful things all swirling around in his head, and he had a jubilant grin stretched all over his face and his eyes were wide because-

 

Anyhow.

 

“So you’re totally good with the plan?” Harry asked, for the sixteenth time on their way to the office.

 

Draco gave him a death-stare grey-eyed-wolf look that burned holes in Harry’s skin. He and Draco may not have had a holiday to acclimate to one another’s bodyspeak, but Harry heard his words loud and clear in the heavy silence, _shush, and yes I know the plan, who do you take me for?_

 

Their hands were entwined, and Harry didn’t look down at it because he didn’t want to jinx it. He didn’t want to look down and see their hands, tied together, bound in soul and heart and more, and he didn’t want to see the arching lines, the scars, that rose from his wrists, reaching up like vines, clawing their way to his neck. He didn’t want to look down and freak out and punch Draco in the face and then huddle into a ball.

 

He elbowed him, again, and stage-whispered, “Just nod if you know the plan.” Draco’s eye twitched, and he lifted the hand that was not holding Harry’s hand, his right hand, to his lips and made a “shush” motion.

 

Harry grinned, and poked him, “Is that a yes?”

 

Draco looked like he was going to explode, protective mother hen or not. His silver eyes swirled with a whirlwind of tacit emotion and Harry’s hand grew clammy. _His_ right one. The one _holding Draco’s_. Had he already said that? Because, yes, they were holding hands and he was dying from it.

 

Hands. Together. Togetherness.

 

And _no_ this _didn’t_ reduce him to monosyllables.

 

Draco leant in close. His hair was no longer gelled back ( _I wonder why that is_ Harry thought about the stylistic choice) and so the wispy strands tickled his cheek as their proximity increased. Draco could probably feel the thrum of Harry’s concealing magic, the glamours, but the blonde was _tactful_ and wouldn’t say anything. _Please don’t say anything_. Draco whispered, hot waterfalls guzzling down Harry’s neck as the words dripped off his tongue, off his _tongue_ and onto Harry’s _neck_ ( _and was it weird that he wasn’t thinking about the elephant in the room which was his uncle, and oh great now he’s thinking about it, fancy that_ ), “This is a stealth mission, we need to stay silent.”

 

Draco said it as if Harry hadn’t gone on and on about the importance of inaudibility and an unnoticeable nature for ten whole minutes before they left. Harry didn’t really understand, himself, why he was talking so much. It felt as if keeping the words in would choke him up, they needed to spill out or he would drown in everything unsaid, as if he were swimming in a maelstrom of overlapping thoughts that all rushed for the exit at the same time.

 

Harry flushed, sweat dripping off him as his nerves increased, as Draco began to draw small intricate circles on his wrist where they were _holding hands_. Draco’s face blanked out, and Harry had to wonder what he was thinking, why he was acting so unDracoish.

 

It was almost as if a distance had opened up between them, the floor had caved in beneath them, and there was a crack that hadn’t been there before. But, that was ridiculous, because they were _holding hands_ , they were as close as they’d ever been.

 

Harry, lost in thought, barely shook himself awake once he realised they had reached their destination. The gargoyle at the bottom of Dumbledore’s office stared, unimpressed, at them both. Harry jerked a little, extricating his grip, and Draco gave him a shuttered emotionless look. When the blonde spoke, his voice was in monotone, as if he were just a puppet being pulled about by invisible strings, he seemed disconnected from life, just actions with no thought,

 

“Caramel Clusters.”

 

Harry knelt down by the beginning of the stairs, heart beating out of his chest. Being this close to Dumbledore’s office brought old memories up to the surface, and he felt as if he were back in that cold compressed space, mould in his lungs, galaxies away from the open sky. He realised he was shuddering into his hands only when he felt a hand on the small of his back, pulling him out of his head. It was weird, because he always flinched when someone touched him out of his head, but deep in the belly of the beast, running in the halls of his mind, he intrinsically knew he was safest when in the presence of this person.

 

He lifted his head, meeting Draco’s dead eyes. The boy didn’t speak. He leant against the bricks outside the door, keeping watch as the plan had always been. Harry stared at him fathomlessly for a few moments that seemed outside of time itself, he couldn’t think of anything to say. So, he said nothing.

 

He raced up the stairs, heart in his throat, eyes wide with the thrill of it. It had been too long since his last adventure. He’d been cooped up for too long. And, it was just him here, no crowds to suffocate him, no tall looming adults to swindle him out of his skin, no werewolves on the prowl or Voldemorts behind purple turbans. This was a mission, an escape, but it was _safe_.

 

Dumbledore’s office was an explosion of all things garish. He was clearly an eclectic collector, and any number of gadgets and dusty tomes and brand spanking new cured animal furs lined the walls and floors. It was a rainbow that told tales of a man who had lived through a whole century, further, and continued to live even as his skin sagged and eyes dulled. Dumbledore was a traveller of life.

 

Harry scanned the shelves, looking past a contraption that resembled a tambourine and gave off plumes of orange smoke and a opal embellished necklace that gave Harry the urge to put it on and dance like a diva, and finally came across the goal for this mission; the Sorting Hat.

 

He leapt into the air, legs smarting in such a way that reminded him he needed to go out and fly sometime, and stole the article from its shelf. He sat down in the Headmaster’s chair, the seat softened from overuse but cold meaning the man had not partaken in its comfort in quite a while, and placed the hat upon his clammy brow, letting it ensconce him in darkness as it covered his eyes.

 

**My, my, my, one cannot teach an old dog new tricks but one can certainly escape their prisons and look for bounties! Harry Potter, Mr. Potter, it has simply been too long.**

 

Harry, having come all this way, was suddenly at a loss for words. He hadn’t really thought of what he would say, only what objective he wished to achieve.

 

**Still short sighted, I see. Eyes bigger than your stomach, coming all this way for a bite before realising you lack the appetite. What can I do you for, Mr. Potter?**

He wondered about the Sorting Hat’s capabilities for a moment. It had been made by the Founders, after all, who knew what kinds of gifts it had been imbued with?

 

**Alas, I could endow you with tales of my special talents for years without pause, Mr. Potter, but that is not why you have come to me. Ask me what you truly seek.**

 

He was hesitant; he had come here in Second Year and refuted the very thing he wished to achieve now. All of a sudden he was awash with doubt. What if this was a mistake? Draco was bound to grow sick of him sooner or later, just think of how he had been acting on their mission. As if Harry was a nuisance. Stone faced, as if Harry had bored or bothered him.

 

**Now, now, Mr. Potter, it is not the time to turn back. Our time together is running out, so you would be smartest to make your decision sooner rather than later. Consider, do you truly want this? There can be no turning back time, after all.**

 

The last phrase of the Sorting Hat sounded almost humorous, as if it were in on a joke Harry didn’t know. But, he wouldn’t analyse the subtleties of the Sorting Hat’s complex attitudes and behaviours, they were running out of time. He had to decide.

 

Harry held his breath, until his face went red and his chest tightened into a fist. He wondered for a moment if he could die that way, from suffocating, from holding it all in, but the minute the thought crossed his mind the Angel’s Gift kicked into gear and his mouth was forcibly opened.

 

_I want to do it. I want you to sort me again._

 

The Sorting Hat sounded ominous as it replied, but no less decisive.

 

**There you have it, Mr. Potter. SLYTHERIN.**

 

It was just as he had feared. It was just as he had wished, and prayed for, and been terrified of. He imagined what Draco would say when he found out, when he came down the stairs, triumphant, a new man, enlightened. He thought Draco might embrace him, might wear his silly grin and gooey eyes, might peck a kiss against Harry’s inflamed cheekbone. Or, maybe not. Maybe that Draco would have disappeared, dissipated into thin air like a fine mist, and all that Harry would have to hold was empty bones and that shell of a boy who had so scared him. He didn’t want to sleep next to a vacuum, he didn’t want to stare into those eyes and cry without reprieve, but it truly wasn’t up to him.

 

All of a sudden the hat was removed from his head and a distraught Dumbledore stared down at him. The old man whispered, heartbreak etched into the lines of his face, “My boy, I do not think you understand what havoc you have sewed.”

 

And Harry sent him a shit-eating grin in return, life flooding his limbs once more. He replied, nonchalant and loving every second of it, “Oh but you’re wrong sir, I really do.”

 

/

 

More therapy for him from this episode of “acting out”? Oh well, at least he could boast to Snape’s riled up face all the fun he would have in _his_ House, under _his_ roof.

 

This was going to be a wild ride, but he wouldn’t be enduring it alone.

 

/


	11. When I wish being a Lord actually gave me power - and the imminent flirting begins

He did have his Lordship (which had originally exempted him from any botched psychotherapy), but if he wished to continue attending Hogwarts then he was required to endure “therapy” with Snape. Over the holidays, the man had clearly attempted to become well versed with the subject, and instead of just potion books lining the walls, tomes of ancient therapeutic techniques now burst from his bookshelves. Wizards had weird ideas of what constituted therapy, but Snape held an aversion to muggle literature so had only read wizarding works, hence there was the answer to why they were doing what they were doing today. Whatever it was, it was mad. Harry didn’t have a name for it, other than “horror”.

Snape was holding his hands, wrists to be precise. Harry shrunk in on himself, leaning away from the other man, his skin itching in discomfort. The older man explained that he was attempting a magical transfusion, that his mental ailments may have originated from a magical issue, and that one of the main “magical veins” were quite literally the veins. Harry shivered, hands trembling, mouth firmly clamped shut. He tried to distance himself from the situation. He didn’t trust himself to pretend to be Silas Black, as the Black Heir would most likely attempt sexual advances, Harry’s ultimate fear.

“Just relax, Harry,” Snape tried to soothe him as his own magic jabbed at Harry’s, “I really think this might help, you just have to trust me.” Harry glared with all his might, shutting his mind down behind Occlumency barriers, waiting for this foreign torture to be over. He wished Snape had never progressed past the talking stage of therapy, because this was utter insanity.

Therapy was so stressful occasionally Harry felt himself unconsciously scratching at himself just to deal with it, but Snape hadn’t noticed yet or he just didn’t care enough to notice. Some people were like that, and his acerbic Potions professor seemed just like the type. At present he found himself locked behind the walls, staring out at his professor through a veil of numbness, his right heel scraping at his left leg’s ankle until he felt blood slick his shoe. He just wanted this to be over.

“There, see, you’re so much calmer. I knew that-” Snape’s voice broke off abruptly and the greasy haired man’s eyes narrowed. He was staring at the blankness in Harry’s eyes and his profusely bleeding ankle. He scowled to himself, pulling his hands away slowly and breaking their magical connection, before he shuffled about his office.

Harry sat, still and sedate, hands resting in his lap, mind half alive. Snape returned with a pot of healing balm, and handed it to the boy. He leant back in his own chair, writing notes of the encounter which probably had something along the lines of _touch aversion, self harm as coping strategy, dissociation?_

Harry remained motionless, breaths coming slowly. Deep in the bowels of his Occlumency he was scowling at the old man, wishing more than anything to be out and about. He’d missed Go Fish Tuesday with his friends for this shit-show.

“I see that... it may not have worked as first predicted,” Snape said slowly, as if tasting his words.

Harry lulled himself away from his safe mental space, long enough to say, “No shit, Sherlock.” It was an expression Luna had taken to using, where she had got it from he was clueless but he liked the electric feel of the words on his tongue. Harry thought he may as well live life to the max while he was still here, and that involved copious amounts of swearing.

Snape’s eye twitched, he truly was an atrocious therapist, “Well, what would you have me do? You’ve resisted each and every methodology of the mind, all that remains is electric shocks and lobotomy.” The sad thing was that Harry wasn’t sure if Snape were joking. Actually, no, that was the funny thing.

Harry giggled, giving a taunting grin, “We’ll have plenty of time to experiment, hey, with me in your House now?”

Snape looked as if the world had dropped a huge weight on his shoulders. Harry hoped that the Potions teacher may cut their “session” short, he had Herbology to faff about with.

Maybe the world isn’t so bad, because his dream came true.

/

“ _Are_ we dating?” Neville asked, a tad concerned.

Luna shrugged in response, in such a way that he was not reassured in the slightest.

“I guess there is romance in mystery... or not romance, if it turns out we’re not dating...?” Neville attempted to rationalise the situation. He had always been a fan of labels, of clearly marked borders, of titles of “good” and “bad” instructing him in how he was meant to behave. He liked to know what to do in each shifting circumstance; he boxed things in, he gave everything a name, and he dealt with it all in its due time and place. Such as, his uncle being silent had been called Don’t Meet His Eyes and Follow What He Says, his gran and her Merlin be damned cockerel head piece meant she was feeling formal, it was Be The Polite Boy and Don’t Meet Her Eyes. Harry being extra quiet meant Suicide Watch. Draco hemming and hawing around, pacing in their communal group hang out meant A Letter From Damien. Neville was a secret keeper, the hoarder of information. He knew, he labelled, he didn’t share, and he worked it out.

This thing with Luna, however, was terrifying to the max. This not knowing that lingered between them, half-arsed romantic or platonic tension, the way his eyes would shift but he wasn’t sure if it was because he _liked_ her or because he liked her. It ate away at him. He didn’t know how to speak to her, how to act around her. Was she a love interest? Was she his friend? Was she some not-yet-defined _thing_ in the middle of that? Was it allowed, to not fit within the boxes? How could he cope? The questions boxed him in, and Neville despised it, for all of this was about containment and control, because Neville _couldn’t_ be contained, he _couldn’t_ be locked away. He boxed _them_ in, not himself. And the anxiety was trapping him, shutting him up, switching off the light and it was so dark in here that he couldn’t breathe. There _were_ no answers. Only infinite questions.

And, Luna wasn’t in any hurry to clarify. She changed her mind every other day; he could hardly keep track of when they were supposedly dating anymore. Were they together today? Had they ever been? All of this made him want to stick fingers down his throat, scrape and scrape until all that food he’d been forced to eat had been expelled, until he’d been cleansed and he could breathe freely again. The thought caught him off guard, he’d never felt like that before, but all of a sudden it seemed _too much_. He wanted the tears to take his mind off the uncertainty, he wanted the burn, he wanted Luna’s suspicion, her charity, her warm golden gaze. She _saw_ him. She _did_.

He was shooting in the dark. Being shot at, more accurately put. Maybe she could unpickle him from this muddle.

Neville rested his head in his hands. He felt light headed, from not eating anything since yesterday morning, and gloomy. People stared in the halls now, at his lithe form. Girls gossiped about him behind their hands, flushed when he acted the same as he always did. Teachers, even, responded more readily, as if his new skin meant Neville was new as well. It was a different world being attractive, made all the worse by the floating rumours of him and Luna.

She took his hand, rubbing soothing wide shapes on his skin. A triangle over his elbow, a square across his veins, a long winding never ending spiral over his palm, a circle on the back of his hand. She said nothing, didn’t explain _what_ she was doing, _what_ to call this, and Neville felt listless all of a sudden. Her fingers trailed further down, all the way to his wrist bone, and Neville stiffened. Beneath the blood glamour lay the truth, the stamp from his uncle, the brand from his gran, the roughened skin. Luna traced the outline, as if she knew it was there, but that was _impossible_ , no one _knew_. Her smile was indulgent, and Neville’s face grew hot all of a sudden. She inquired, voice but a wisp of smoke in the hollow of his ear,

“So many secrets, so many assumptions, make an ass out of ‘u’ and ‘me’, don’t you think, lover?” They weren’t lovers, they _weren’t_. But, when she said it like that, Neville was almost convinced they were, _almost_ certain.

But they weren’t. And _almost_ wasn’t enough for him.

He titled his face away from her mouth, her lips on his ear, and said, “It’s not enough. I _need_ to know.”

Luna’s smile was as soft as summer rain, sparkling, glimmering, “I know.” Her voice held no remorse nor regret, she was stating an unflappable fact. She _knew_. But, she didn’t care to change.

“Then why?” Neville asked.

“Because the world is not as flat as you think, not as round as they think, not as beautiful as I do. There is no finite. You need to accept that now, before the world blows us away, off into the air.” Neville thought, in that moment, that she held a deadly beauty. A whimsy. A world away in her eyes. He wanted her to hold him, to take him back to shore, to safety, but she _was_ the shore. She held no mercy, but he thought that didn’t matter. None of it mattered. What even was this life they had?

“I know,” Neville replied, and from then on it became their inside joke, because no one knew anything at all.

/

Apparently the rumour that Draco had coerced Harry to be his “werewolf mate thingy” was still going strong, not that Harry had expected otherwise as Draco’s possessive (platonic!) nature had not lessened since the start of term.

Even in Slytherin where he now existed – which was very weird by the way, Slytherins were _weird_ – they gave Harry a wide berth whenever Draco was near. Which was most of the time, because Draco seemed to hang off of him like a limpet all the time. Theodore Nott had been removed from their dorm, needed to bunk with Blaise Zabini from now on, and Draco all but demanded Harry sleep in his dorm. It was weirdly intimate, and surely not what _friends_ did, but no one in Slytherin batted an eye.

When they were together, which was almost always, the air felt hot with tension. Harry caught Draco staring at him with those molten eyes, and Draco caught Harry staring back, and then for a time they just stared. It was weird, but Slytherin was weird, so no one seemed to mind. They lived in the dungeons, the cold would seep into his skin, and voices echoed, so everyone spoke in hushed tones. Everyone had a secret in Slytherin, and there were power struggles, but Harry had a nagging feeling that he and Draco existed outside the norm. Draco zinged with danger, his magic was electrified to a state where none dared visit him, so he and Harry were made exempt to the normal Slytherin rules and regulations.

When they were apart, Harry tended to simply sit in the common room, right up against the wall so no one could sneak up on him. Whenever not alone, which was always since Draco stuck like glue and Neville seemed hyper cautious whenever Harry became contemplative and Luna hung around because she liked their “auras”, Harry found himself sinking into his Silas persona. He skipped around the sexual aspects, even if that was a major facet of the wizard’s character, and kept his cool. Harry in Griffindor had been known for being brave and noble, Harry in Slytherin was known for his serenity and ever observant eyes.

He had taken up a hobby called “people watching” – fairly self explanatory.

Harry had begun to practice sitting with a book and pretending to read, whilst actually observing the whole room around him. Every so often he would remember to flick a page and trail eyes down from the rim at the top of the book to the gut at its papery bottom. Subtle observation was something he had observed from Blaise Zabini, who, if asked to describe, he would label as suave and streamlined as a fitted suit. Walking around with Blaise Zabini as your skin was a one way ticket to the ultimate cool factor and envy of less cool passersby.

 

“Would you like to found a _study_ group?”

 

One day, when Draco had to go _somewhere_ – his friend was awfully mysterious of late, and as Harry worked his people studying magic on Draco he found the boy more complicated than he had first anticipated – somewhere mysterious most likely, Blaise Zabini had slithered his way in beside him. A _study_ group was of course code for people-watching. Nevertheless, how could Harry say no to studying? He was attempting to usurp a certain Ms. Granger from her throne of literary prowess after all – his revenge list was coming along smoothly, and he had plots for all involved.

 

Harry nodded, the action well timed like Silas always was. The two then proceeded to sit in silence, next to each other, for an indefinite amount of time, “reading”.

 

“Harry, what’s _this_?” Draco growled in a way which would not be helpful in dissuading people from the “werewolf mate” speculation. Blaise Zabini briefly lifted an eye from his book to stare at Draco, unimpressed. Harry attempted to do the same, but was then swept away in the roaring fire of the other boy’s eyes.

 

This was the weird thing about Draco. Sometimes Draco was like _this_ , passionate, on fire, a roaring flame in which none could douse. He looked as if he wished to eat Harry whole, lick strips of his skin until he was nothing but a quivering skeleton of flesh, to murder him in a rage that somehow still did not prod Harry’s fear. He loved, hated, existed in extremes. But, other times, in the quiet times, when Draco was lost in a sea of thought, his face would glaze over and his eyes would dim, and he would appear to be more doll than boy, more face than thought, more flesh than magic. Draco would tilt his head at Harry, as if uncomprehending of his entirety, and blink with vacancy. Harry was still solving the enigma of Draco Malfoy, but he felt he was close, on the precipice of truth.

 

Forced to live for a while longer as he was, Harry would unravel the blonde.

 

Silas’ dulcet tone caused Draco to tense, he knew Harry well enough that if Silas needed to be involved then Harry was not _coping_ well enough alone, “ _Darling_ , just a little study session, that’s all.” At the pacification, Draco cooled considerably, flames being diverted from Harry’s form to the ever quiet and thoughtful Blaise.

 

His eyes seemed to ask ‘and _you_ , what do you have to say for yourself?’ Sadly, Blaise was not up to speed in bodyspeak, and just returned the stare, presenting boredom on his face.

 

Silas continued, Harry working in the backseat, eyes aware, “Would you care to join us?”

 

Draco sat, folding his legs with pure-blood precision, his posture picture perfect. Blaise brought a leg up over his other, folding it with elegance that rivalled Draco, and Harry watched on with bemusement. They were like puffed up peacocks showing their feathers. He turned a page, focusing back on his people watching, intently inspecting the facial cues of a barely-keeping-it-together Slytherin First Year.

 

Draco’s expression shuttered once more, like a poorly designed mannequin, and Harry observed out of the corner of his eye. What was wrong with him? What was going on?

 

He sure as hell would find out, that was for certain.

 

/

 

“...his rat, Scabbers, yes. Thank you, have a nice day.”

/

 

Harry’s eyes peered in suspicion as Draco leant up to the noticeboard. Luna and Neville were playing checkers together, Luna winning as she always did. They were hanging around in the “clubhouse of the Cerberus” (dubbed by Luna) procrastinating homework and enjoying each other’s company. Draco had placed a shoe box on the round table as he had walked in, a wicked bloodthirsty grin on his face, and leant up to the revenge list posted on their noticeboard. The only other poster was an in-house checkers competition, dotted in hand-drawn dandelions that Luna had slaved over for a long arduous after noon, Neville loyally placed at her side handing her the critical writing utensils.

 

_List of Vengeance_

_Ron Weasley – spread nasty rumours?_

_Hermione Granger – become good at school **and rub it in her face**_

_~~Severus Snape – resist therapy **and join Slytherin House**~~ _

_Albus Dumbledore – **murder** Tell wizarding world the truth? (steal lemon drops?)_

 

Draco brought an already inked quill from behind his ear and scratched off a name. Harry stood up, wandering over to the list, and stared,

 

_List of Vengeance_

_~~Ron Weasley – spread nasty rumours? **Kill pet rat**~~ _

_Hermione Granger – become good at school and rub it in her face_

_~~Severus Snape – resist therapy and join Slytherin House~~ _

_Albus Dumbledore – **murder** Tell wizarding world the truth? (steal lemon drops?)_

 

Draco sent him a slanted cocky grin, and Harry blinked. He walked over to the shoe box, pretty sure he knew what the contents would be. Inside one could not distinguish _what_ it had once been, as there was only a gush of blood and gore, but Harry had reason to believe it was the scabby rat formerly known as Scabbers and now known as Fleshy Pulp.

 

“I figured we could feed it to the Hippogriffs in Care tomorrow,” Draco whispered into Harry’s ear, wrapping his arms around him from behind. Harry stiffened, but forced himself to become Silas-like, and relaxed into the hold.

 

His own breath tickled Draco’s ear as he purred, in a velvety tone only Silas could pull off, “ _Darling_ , that would be just _delicious_.” Draco shuddered against him, but pulled away. Silas blinked, cocking his head as if confused,

 

“What’s wrong baby?”

 

Draco shook his head, untold warmth in his eyes, “I only want Harry. I only fell in love with Harry.”

 

Neville cooed at the scene, not paying attention to the checkers game where Luna was most definitely cheating. She had amassed an extra three pieces by some magical occurrence, and had chopped off the head of Neville’s leader.

 

Harry flushed bright red, Silas sinking back into his skin, but kept his distance. It was a warm sentiment but he just wasn’t _ready_ for... anything like that. There were boundaries in place for a reason. Nightmares had lessened in frequency, but he still wore non-stop glamours and felt unsettled in the world. He almost felt guilty, Draco _loved_ him, but he wouldn’t be here soon, not after the blood moon had passed and his binding had been released.

 

/

 

Harry plopped mash potato on Neville’s plate. Luna was home sick – she said something about visiting the stars and centaurs but one never quite knew with her – so Harry was on Neville-duty. He piled on the green-beans in a stack so high that Neville worried for the state of infrastructure in today’s society.

 

“...this is too much,” Neville’s entire personality had sunken inwards at Luna’s absence. Co-dependency at its finest.

 

Harry tutted, stacking the same amount of food on his own place, and winked at the Griffindor, “I’ll race you.” He clearly held no care for the perils of indigestion from gorging on food.

 

Neville scrunched up his mouth, evidently planning to expel this food sooner rather than later. Harry, however, was well educated in bodyspeak and saw his plan from a mile off, “It takes six to eight hours to digest food, and _guess what_ we’re spending six to eight hours in Hogsmeade today!” Harry was bubbly, excited to be out of the castle. He was going stir crazy, even attempting suicide was becoming difficult because no one let him out of their sight, and one can only lie on the floor and disrupt incoming traffic so many times before it grew old. Especially as people liked to step on him with their big bad potion’s boots.

 

The brunet sighed forlornly, hanging his head on his arms, looking very upset at the thought of having to eat the monstrous island of food piled onto his plate. Harry was unsympathetic to his plight, and said, “Eat up, or I’ll tell Lady Little Moon, and you know what _she’s_ like.”

 

Neville straightened, lunging for the fork at the thought of Luna’s wrath.

 

/

 

A slightly bloated Neville and manic Harry made their way to Hogsmeade, caught up in the hubbub of a locomoting crowd. They held hands, ignoring the stares garnered from the actions, terrified of being separated for entirely dissimilar reasoning. Neville worried for Harry’s increasingly manic and energetic behaviour, having learned that sudden bouts of glee from a depressed person could be linked to suicidal ideations the _hard way_ , and Harry was quite harried for Neville’s own health and safety, considering the brunet had not been getting much better in Hogwarts.

 

It was safe to stay, as caught up in each other’s health as they were, they failed to realise they were supposed to be attempting their own destructive behaviours. Quite the turn of events. Saviour complexes, selfless heroes, what can you do?

 

Harry skipped through the shops, wrapped up in a snug coat, the snow drifting prettily around them both. Neville’s cheeks were flushed bright red from the cold, he looked a little like Rudolph’s nose. They were ebullient and gleeful as they moved from store to store, forgetting their own issues for a short time in favour of finding gifts for their wayward friends/maybe lovers/other half of their ambiguous-relationships. Harry bought Draco a snow globe, wondering if the blonde would think of it and him once he was long gone, and Neville got Luna a big plastic container filled with sparkly rainbow rulers, knowing it was her favourite sweet. They both felt very light as they did all but skip, gifts in hand.

 

The two began to head back to Hogwarts, seeing students gathering at the station, before Harry saw something _suspect_ which caught his eye. He let go of Neville’s hand, drifting closer to the store, eyes wide with shock.

 

There was Draco, framed by the window, his platinum hair windswept with snow but eyes vacant as he sat in a booth with an older man. The other looked vaguely familiar, having matching features to many of the students inhabiting Slytherin House, as most purebloods looked alike. The other man, with brown hair and skin that curled around itself, held Draco’s hand, _his_ Draco’s hand, chattering on about something without a care.

 

Harry, without knowing it, so zoned in on the scene, didn’t realise when his own hand had met the glass of the store, palm out and flat. The two, most likely on a _date_ as could be seen by the _roses_ and the _romantic decorations_ , swivelled around to stare at the small raven-haired boy staring through the glass. He felt choked up, all of a sudden, as if someone where taking his throat in their hand and slowly clenching a fist. Draco blinked, eyes still foggy with nothing, hand staying in the older man’s grip. Harry stumbled back, heart thudding in his throat, fear drifting up in the air, rising like danger.

 

He couldn’t breathe or speak, he was horrified. He lunged away, racing against the snow, past Neville’s concerned gaze. He dropped the snow globe down in the sodden snow blanket, finding a communal toilet block and shutting himself away inside. He had never wanted to die so much, it felt like it. His heart thudded in betrayal, he’d never _thought_ that Draco wouldn’t wait, that Harry wouldn’t be enough, because Draco had always _been_ there, he’d never _asked_ for anything, and Harry had fooled himself into thinking that Draco might have just _liked_ him, that he hadn’t needed to _give_ the blonde anything, and did he have to do that now? Was that the only way? Harry was terrified of his body, he didn’t _want_ to do _anything_ , he didn’t want to, but would he have to, was he not enough, was Draco-

 

“Harry.”

 

His thoughts petered out as he heard that voice. His whole body tightened in sadness. He never should have _thought_ about Draco like _that_ , because he was obviously too fucked up for anybody, let alone someone as lovely as Draco, as fucking possessive and gorgeous, and what was Harry? He was scarred, he was broken, he wasn’t lovable by _anyone_ , let _alone_ Draco Malfoy.

 

“Harry.”

 

He breathed in deep, trying to brace himself for the rejection. He crawled along the tiled floor, clicking open the door of his bathroom stall. He rested his head against the wall, slamming his eyes shut as he heard the sounds of someone shuffling into the stall. The door clicked closed.

 

Draco kept his distance, sat on the opposite wall, but the stall wasn’t very big so their legs still brushed against one another’s. Harry kept his eyes closed, not bearing to look at the blonde, hands interlocked in his lap, scraping at his skin in order to distract himself from _this_. Draco voice was not gentle, it had never been _gentle_ , but it was honest, direct, and Harry liked that about him,

 

“I’m going to be honest with you, Harry, and if you hate me then that’s okay, because you’re allowed to hate me.”

 

Well, if that didn’t just instil hope in Harry then nothing would. Jesus _fuck_ Draco, what was he trying to do, scare Harry off with those ominous words?

 

“I’m not a normal boy, Harry. I think you should know that about me. There’s... something wrong with me, okay? I’m being honest, that’s all I can do. Lucius, I mean my father, normal people don’t call their parents by name. My father trained me from a young age, Harry. I was a soldier, an animal to be tamed. I didn’t _feel_ anything, Harry, I was just a body doing actions, a doll. I think maybe you already know this, because I’ve seen you watching me, I’ve catalogued your suspicion.”

 

Harry felt his heart sink in his chest. Had it all been a lie? A lie for Lucius? Was this was Draco was trying to say, that he didn’t love Harry because he _couldn’t_?

 

“But, that was until I met you. When I found you on top of the Astronomy Tower, crumbled, _dead_ , my heart broke. I realised I loved you. I realised I had always loved you. I _felt_. _I felt for you_. But, I held back, you were hurting from... and _I_ couldn’t offer you what you deserved; a real boy. Today I was on a date with Damien Greengrass, that’s where you caught me. I was assigned to lay the groundwork with him by my father, but I don’t like him Harry. I actually think he’s a dullard, to be honest. Not like you, I’ve never liked anyone like I like you. And, I wanted you to know that. I wanted you to know the truth.”

 

Harry opened his eyes. Draco met them, emotion swirling in their depths unbidden. They stared, silent and unmoving, like stone figures carved out of eternity. Harry let the words Draco had spoken run around in the aisles of his head. He let Draco loose inside him, let his childhood click into place, let the _real boy_ behind the facade come to the forefront of his mind. Harry crawled forward, slowly. He leant his head down in Draco’s lap, staring up at the ceiling, and the blonde drew fingers through his hair. Neither said a word.

 

Harry hoped he would be able to find that snow globe. But, maybe it wouldn’t just be Draco watching it after the blood moon. Maybe Harry would be there too. Maybe Draco could save him.

 

/

 

Harry had been in the library when the goblet of fire had spat out his name. Neville, eating with Luna with great displeasure, had been the one to fetch him. Harry hadn’t denied anything; he knew he wouldn’t be believed. Draco had held his hand all the way to the dorm, and that night, swaddled in the dubiety of Slytherin approval and the disquiet of the school, they had slept in the same bed, engulfed in one another’s warmth.

 

/

 

Cedric Diggory had spent apparently _far too long_ tracking down Harry Potter. He panted against the wall of the crooked library, adjusting his Hufflepuff tie and smiling easily. Harry had decided to focus on his studies. He couldn’t die in the First Task, still bound by the moon, but he had begun to have hope that he might live past the second.

 

“Hi gorgeous,” Cedric said, and Harry’s eyes widened into huge pits. _What?_

 

Cedric continued to rattle on, having no idea of the emotional upheaval that stirred in Harry, conflicts of Draco’s fire and Cedric’s flirty nature slammed against one another, “I have a message from Hermione to tell you that Seamus told her that Pavrati told Dean that Hagrid was looking for you, she also says she isn’t an owl. By the way.”

 

Cedric winked, left Harry flustered, and sauntered out of the library. Harry went and tracked down Hagrid, taking in the information of dragons and translating that into “I’m about to live through a painful digestion in dragon stomach acid.”

 

/


	12. When ocarina is awesome somehow and I get numerous head injuries - also damnit it's dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: When you make a poll revolving around flirting, but have literally no idea how to flirt. Good job author. And also OH EM GEE! It’s the final chapter of the second part, I’m super duper excited on a trooper scooter... uh, and yes, be prepared to be disappointed in the amount of flirting. But, hey, jealous!Draco am I right, haha? And also, I guess this is where the twist happens????????

The inundation of students all there to watch him fight and crumple against a dragon was almost humorous. Waking in a cold sweat that morning, humour, humour, humour. His whole life was a joke, wasn’t it? Puny Harry, puny little Potter against the world. Har. Har. Harry. Ha Ha Harry. His whole name was a stutter. And, okay? Was this panic in his chest?

 

Did you know dragons breathe fire?

 

Did you know that Harry was not flame retardant?

 

Did you know that one and one equals two and maybe Harry doesn’t want to die anymore, syllogisms be damned?

 

But was that true? He didn’t know. Was he blinded by love? Did he love Draco? Should you base your whole life around another person? It sure felt as if his life had been imprinted with a Draco shaped part, the blonde’s face suffocated down into the mould, breathing his soul around it. They held hands and then their lives clicked into position.

 

Get ready. Get ready.

 

Did you know that he was thinking of Draco while he was fighting a dragon?

 

Every eye was on him. They must all think he was an idiot. A numbskull. He certainly would if he wasn’t informed. Or maybe he did anyway. He’d never been too sure how he felt about himself. How did you feel about _yourself_? Wasn’t that a strange concept? Harry had always focused on the world around him, had never been one to self analyse, but as the dragon neared and its teeth gleamed sharp and silver, he had to wonder.

 

Who was he? Who was Harry Potter?

 

He brought the ocarina to his lips. Just like they had practiced. It was impossible to get it wrong. It was. It had been practiced _so many times_. He could charm the pants off a dragon – a Draco even. Although, apparently he didn’t need an ocarina for that.

 

And, also, _no_. Grosse. Pants stay firmly on in this mental spiral. Yuck. Like he wanted to see anyone’s scabby puny behind. He was puny Potter but he had some pride. Sex was off the table. Forever.

 

Screw Silas.

 

It was funny because Silas would be on board with that.

 

The dragon swayed, comically almost. Harry wondered if they would wizard-sue him if it crashed into the stands. He imagined a flattened Colin Creevey, camera eternally raised in heaven.

 

Heaven existed. It did. Harry had been there.

 

Wow, he really missed it.

 

The dragon fell asleep. Harry woke up.

 

/

 

His eyes fluttered as he rose to consciousness, all his body ached and a jagged shard of darkness deep in his subconscious said _I’m not surprised_.

 

Bustling figures crowded around him, and Harry flopped a wet fish of a hand over his vision to avoid the sudden flooding of light. He felt as if he’d been hit by a train. The throbbing in his spine commented _maybe you have_.

 

But, how could that have happened? Aunt and Uncle never let him leave the house in the holidays. Actually, wasn’t it just yesterday that Uncle Vernon had said-

 

Harry went ice cold and curled up, wondering what this pounding in his spine had _truly_ been caused by.

 

“Give him some space!” A familiar voice filtered down from the cacophonous chaos of noise surrounding him. He felt like he knew it... and _wait, if there is another voice that means I can’t be at my relative’s house...?_

 

Cold dread suffocated him as wrinkled hands adjusted him from his foetal pose. As his mind cleared, the drowning sensations of doom did not abate, and Harry held his breath.

 

The hand pressed itself against his forehead, and the voice commented with relief, “He’s fine. It’s just magical exhaustion.”

 

“I’m not surprised,” something else spoke, their words drifting down from infinity away, “Using magical music against a dragon, although utterly inspired, is also most certainly draining.”

 

The hand, to his intense and floundering gratitude, retreated back to its host, and Harry took it upon himself to curl up into an embarrassingly immovable ball once more. The swimming figures dissolved into nothing and he groaned long and low as a stabbing in his brain started up again.

 

“Harry?” Another eerily familiar voice asked, concern etched into the tone. He felt hands on him, but this time an instinctual part of him did not flinch away. He was safe, he knew it to his core.

 

He mumbled nonsensically, and the voice annoyingly persisted, “Use words, I don’t speak gibberish.”

 

“Meh,” said Harry.

 

The voice poked him in the shoulder and Harry growled. _Fucking voices_.

 

“G’way,” he ordered unsuccessfully, as the instance he spoke the voice tumbled closer, planting a soft and tender kiss onto his forehead. The action filled him with warmth but Harry didn’t want to care. He scrunched up his nose and stuck his tongue out at the faceless figure, blurred into anonymity. The voice accepted his attack and Harry withdrew his wet organ from the unknown person’s cheek with stumbling embarrassment.

 

“Urgh.” It summed up his emotions to a tee.

 

/

 

It turned out being head butted by a sleepy dragon, although surprisingly fitting for the Hogwarts motto, did _not_ keep one from acquiring a pesky head injury. After two days well spent in the Hospital Wing under Madame Pomphrey’s eagle eye, on a strict diet of nutrient potions, curing old ailments whilst Harry fretfully tried to keep his glamours up as his magic flickered, and his friends being denied access – he was finally allowed to leave.

 

Dressed up in cookie-cutter Hogwarts regalia, Harry refused to be swarmed by excitable students wishing the congratulate the Hogwarts Champion – foreign and otherwise – thus smartly chose to evade all human contact. He took the secret passages that were riddling throughout the school like lice, until he arrived at the Slytherin Common Room. It was early, as Madame Pomphrey had beheld similar ideas of steering clear of others, so Harry felt himself relax. The absence of others soothed him.

 

That was, until, he heard a rumbling voice that set his stomach to jelly.

 

“Vot are you doing?”

 

Harry’s mouth opened and closed like that of a goldfish’s; he was speechless, evidently. The looming six foot figure made Harry feel as if he had shrunk two feet; Viktor Krum, international Quidditch star, who was still shivering at the mercy of the Slytherin dungeon’s icy breath even wrapped up in a Bulgarian fur set to withstand blizzards.

 

“Uh,” Harry said, at a loss. One could say star-struck, except for the fact that he wasn’t a fan of Quidditch any longer. Viktor was just so _tall_ and _bearded_ and _troll-like_. “Just... having... fu-dinner.”

 

Viktor slowly processed his words, head tilting as Harry began to quiver uncontrollably, “Vhy so cold...” The man continued to think, and that was what he was; a man, a towering structure that brought butterflies into Harry’s stomach. His eyes sparkled, “Need me to... varm you?”

 

Harry flushed even darker, completely unprepared for this interaction. Silas stirred in his chest, but he forcefully pushed down the possibility, knowing he’d end up riding a broom he was ultimately not ready for.

 

Seconds from racing off into the night, Harry’s train of thought was interrupted by an awfully familiar growl.

 

“Oh. Fuck.” Harry mouthed the words in time with Viktor Krum, the other wrongly believing they’d been infiltrated by a wild animal. But, no, it was no beast. It was worse; Draco Malfoy in a jealous fury.

 

“Run, Viktor, run!” Harry cautioned the Quidditch star, unsure if he was being dramatic or if Draco would actually kill him for professing romantic intentions. A blonde blur streamed across the room and the burly figure could be seen scampering off to his dorm, no match for insanity driven devotion.

 

Draco scooped Harry up into his arms, laughing breathlessly, and Harry attempted not to accuse Draco of attempted murder. “Missed you,” said the blonde ponce, grinning savagely.

 

Harry, a weight lifted from him, smiled back, “Same.”

 

/

 

Later that night, ensconced in the quiet of their dorm, both boys stayed up for dissimilar reasons. Neither spoke.

 

Draco fell into a deep introspection, wondering over the possessive burning for the boy in the bed across from his. He imagined how easy it could be to slip into said bed and mould their forms together. He wondered how Harry would taste on his tongue, what rasping prayers he may spill, what beautiful gasping sounds he might make. Draco curled up on his side, torn in two; one part of him ached for duty and the other longed for love.

 

Harry, feeling miles away from the other boy, lied utterly flat on his back, as if he were resting on a bed of nails. Awash with the tingles of unfathomable blades edging into his spine, he clenched his eyes and fists shut. A strong desire to cease filled him, but he did not shy away from it, rather he poked it as if it were the ashes of a once heft fire. The embers burned, ready to arise once more when the time called for it. _Patience_ he told the painful darkness in his soul _the time will come_.

 

The blood moon neared, after all, and love could only save his life from peril once; a chance withered into uselessness by a fire-spirited mother and a bolt of avada green.

 

/

 

The Yule Ball was held on the same night as Christmas, overshadowing the traditionally muggle holiday perhaps purposefully. Students, dressed to the nines, mingled with one another, some clinging to their dates like life lines, and others abandoning needy partners for the exotic delights of foreign students. It was a night of wonder, of magic singed in the air, and of Harry hiding bashfully behind a delightfully designed Draco Malfoy as Cedric Diggory and Viktor Krum eyed him over the dance floor. Neville and Luna could be spotted on a terrace, out of the din of the party, dancing tenderly in a bath of moonlight; rumours of their on and off relationship could never understand, but they did, and that was what mattered.

 

They said love was kind. Harry said love was definitely not akin to flirting Bulgarians and overly confident Hufflepuffs. Love certainly couldn’t be hiding behind podiums with his heart in his hands. But, maybe love could be Draco, calmly holding his hand and pretending that he wasn’t going to the ball with Theodore Nott instead of Harry. Favours to his father, the blank boy had confessed. Harry had understood, but Blaise Zabini’s stone cold visage hadn’t.

 

/

 

Hushed tones ebbed into silence. Harry’s solemn voice filled all their ears with sorrow, but they didn’t dare stop listening. Draco’s arms, although longing to encircle Harry’s waist, knew personal boundaries when the time desired it.

 

Out, upon the Astronomy Tower, watched by angels and stars alike. The heavens shone down on this moment of vulnerability, none knowing the truth that played inside Harry Potter’s mind.

 

Fire Whiskey had lubricated the words, but they’d always needed to leave him inevitably. His friends deserved the truth, especially considering...

 

 “No _teeth_ boy or I'll remove them myself, he said.” Harry huddled in on himself, as if holding out for a storm coming overhead. The Astronomy Tower was in complete silence, Harry’s voice their only anchor.

 

He met each of their eyes as he spoke, “I was looking into the eye of oblivion, the fog that threatened to consume me, the dragon that ripped my stomach to shreds. He stares at me, his eyes alight with _want_ and _desire_ , I was only an object for him to claim. I know that now. He only wanted me for his own pleasure and domination. It was not me there, I was not in my body, it was only a body. He does not have my mind, don't you understand? This is a day for _celebration_ he does not own my mind, for when I die I will be free of him once and for all, his taint no longer in a body that he does not own.”

 

Harry’s eyes were bright and delirious, as if revealing beautiful truths to the world at large. Neville appeared concerned and Luna was as confused as she _could_ become, entranced by the Fates as she was, she could never truly connect with reality. Draco watched on with treacherous hope, praying that it was only the Fire Whiskey; that Harry wasn’t still thinking of death in such a fashion. It wasn’t glory, no matter how desperate Harry seemed to become. He couldn’t _really_ believe it was freedom. Could he?

 

 _Please_ a desperate Draco would pray to any who listened that night, kneeling on his bed, wishing to Magic that Harry could be saved from himself.

 

/

 

“Next task coming up soon,” Draco murmured from his dorm bed. He had hot cocoa in his hands, burning like a merciless serrated edge, but he liked the pain; it made him _feel_ something. He needed to be awake for Harry, aware, no matter the cost.

 

Harry hummed, saying nothing legible, rather silently letting his mind flood with guilty pleasures. The forbidden things he wasn’t _meant_ to think about. Harry recalled the belts from the beginning of that holiday, and scoffed at his fear; no need to fear death when the eternity of sleep could prevent all pain, forever and always.

 

Not long now.

 

“I know you probably know more spells than me and you’re quick on your feet but... Shouldn’t you get ready?” Draco inquired, trying not to push, _wanting_ to be steadily supportive and a calming influence, but as the days neared his concern skyrocketed. Nothing changed. Nothing _happened_. There was no _progress_ , all was still and silent like an ocean grave. Harry barely _did_ anything anymore. It wasn’t his apathy from last year, it held no defiance. All he did was stay in bed, no longer concerning himself with his absences, as if he didn’t care that he’d have to repeat Third Year for a third time.

 

“I am ready,” said the raven, deadly in his sincerity.

 

Draco felt his heart clench. It must be a new emotion, this simultaneous dread and worry – he called it Harry. The dizzying way his love made him feel. Undocumented feelings that only the other boy could provide. Maybe it was unhealthy, but no matter how painful a feeling Draco kept coming back for more; he wanted to escape the numbness, the Damien Greengrasses of the world, he wanted to exist _completely_.

 

“I’ll get Luna to make up some training stuff, you still want to beat Hermione in grades, right?”

 

The silence yielded no certainty, and Draco’s mouth felt dry.

 

“Right?”

 

/

 

_Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore_

_1881-1994_

_Beloved Hogwarts Headmaster, esteemed servant of the Wizarding World, loved by all of good heart and bountiful faith; let him be remembered a hero_.

 

“Did it help?” Draco asked, staring dully at his headmaster’s pristine gravestone. The boy took to staring at his hands every now and again, as if assessing if they were still dirty, still aflood with blood and gore. He wondered if it would be enough to salvage Harry, to fix him before it became too late.

 

Harry had thought that this vengeance would lighten his load in life, but this was not the case. He felt entirely uncaring, apathetic, he felt neither hide nor hair of this promised illustrious “vindication”. He had hoped, had dreamed, that in the action of avenging his unloved former self, a little boy who had wilted and rotted away, that he may in some way heal his ever present wounds. But now, standing upon Dumbledore's grave, he felt neither. He felt nothing. Harry was a bottomless pit, was a fathomless greying haze, he was the consistency of water, of ephemeral memories never quite tasted. Harry floated upon an abyss of absence, one of the vacant righteous; he longed to _feel_ this glorified _healing_ , but all he had in his palms were dirt and sweat. He was utterly cemented in reality, he felt no bleeding heart, no searing agony followed by angelic euphoria; his only gift was negligence, his only love was that _to want to love_. He ached, yet there was no balm, no feasible eventuality to save him. This was the true fleshed out reality of hopelessness, and it felt ever so familiar.

 

Mr. Snape, stripped of his title of Professor, soon to accept his dues as Death Eater, could be seen watching Fawkes fly out into the sun. The haggard man, once blessed by an angel, would be left with a certain son of a certain enemy haunting his soul forever onwards. Draco Malfoy wondered if this separation could help Harry, if anything could. He wondered if Mr. Snape had even been the problem.

 

“Did it help?” He asked again.

 

Harry responded, “Define ‘help’.”

 

/

 

The moon, enveloped in a hue of blood, rose up above them. The air pulsed with magic, crawling under skin and soul alike and seeping incessantly.

 

“I want you,” whispered a terrified Harry Potter, clutching an equally terrified Draco Malfoy against him.

 

The blonde hesitated, meeting the emerald eyes and asking, wind tussling his hair as the balcony’s open air picked up speed, “Harry?”

 

Harry leant forward, eyes closed, falling into oblivion willingly. He thought of nothing and everything as Draco’s lips met his own, and they collided in a magical fury that stretched over life itself. He felt something sing in his soul, as if two matching pieces had met in matrimony, and his grip on Draco’s pyjamas loosened into a lax hold. The fragrance of Draco was something between danger, blood and loyalty, as if he would shift heaven and hell to help Harry. The cloying feeling of love tried to infiltrate, but Harry knew better than to fall for such fallacies.

 

“S-stop,” the boy stuttered, leaning up against the balcony and gripping with white-knuckled fingers.

 

Draco stepped back, frozen for some reason.

 

“I can't do this anymore.”

 

Draco remained motionless, speechless, caught in the claws of his own thundering heart.

 

“I thought if I kissed you...”

 

Harry stared off, laughed sadly, blank eyes searing into Draco’s soul. It felt like looking into hopelessness, into a black hole, forever nothing. He wanted to move, to stun Harry and run away from death and this scary feeling, but Draco was petrified. None could thaw this ruined heart of his; not even he at his most desperate.

 

“...if I kissed you and I didn't think of him. If I only thought of you and your lips and your hair and your eyes, then I would be okay. I thought if I could accept this one lovely thing, this beautiful golden holy warm thing that sets my skin alight and my stomach, it turns when I'm with you, and I feel this thing within me, which I haven't felt before, which feels _right._ I thought, I thought if I could finally accept you, then maybe everything would be okay. But its not. Its not. Nothing is okay. My whole life is fucked, and I can't do this anymore. I can't keep pretending that its going to get better because it isn't, its been almost two years and it isn't any better. You may love me, but it doesn't change anything. I wish it did, I wish I could stop looking at my hands like they were covered in blood by I can't. I am dirty and I can't do this anymore.”

 

“It doesn't matter that I love you. It doesn't matter that when you kissed me I thought of you and not him. It doesn't matter that I'm slightly better than a year ago. It doesn't matter that some days I might want to keep going, even though I know I'm deluding myself. I have tried, I have. I have gone through my life and searched for some goodness. I have tried to see the bright side, the greener side, the happiness in the sadness. But, I am overwhelmed, and I know that there is a better place for me to go to. I am not an idiot. It would be stupid and painful and maddening to continue. And I will not live in pain any longer. If you love me you must understand this, you must let me go.”

 

Draco lifted a listless arm, hands forever reaching outwards as he realised where they were; at the edge of life. On a balcony. On the night of the blood moon. Where bonds left and lives flew back home.

 

Soul free, a wild Harry Potter saluted his eternal love for a moment before he straddled the balcony and let himself plummet. Air rushed past his ears and all of infinity hit as he met with the ground.

 

/

 

Perhaps it was irony that Harry Potter’s grave lay next to Albus Dumbledore’s.

 

“In one world, you would have kissed Consort Draco on the blood moon, stepped away from the balcony, and grown stronger from the event. You would have smiled a secretive smile to me that next morning, I would have seen a hickey on your hand since Consort Draco kissed it for so long, and you would have called me Little Moon for the first time and not the last. You would have found a strength deep inside yourself and created something beautiful, which would have lasted for almost a thousand years, and helped so many... But this is not that world. I am not that Luna. You are not that _Harry_. And it is not meant to be that way.”

 

“The stars... they show nothing tonight. The waters of Sight are muddled and unknown. You, Lord Harry, have done something none have done before. You have risen from the shackles of fate and destiny, you have chosen your own path that none wanted but yourself, and you have paved your own road to walk along. I do not know for sure what the sky says tonight, I do not even know what Lady Magic and Lady Fate call to me. They say nothing. As you leave us I am abandoned by my own Sight, the world is plunged into darkness, is stabbed like you are stabbed. Harry, I do not know your future, as does no one, and I can only bid you to be careful and tell you that I love you. Your Little Moon or not.”

 

Luna spoke, lone, to only the stars that shielded her. Out there, in heaven or whatever lay beyond the mortal realm, she knew a Harry lived at peace.

 

/

 

The blue fluorescent orbs of an angel wrenched wide; the coma had lifted. The blood moon had cycled. The stars had aligned.

 

The boy was dead.


	13. When I am in an Author's Note again...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OH EM GEE THE END IS NIGH

ATTENTION READERS!

Oh em gee! It’s that time of year again; when the Author has lifted themself off of their lazy behind and finished a fic. I know I’m excited :D

Thanks for reading this far, it’s been an incredible journey, I’d like to thank lalala... and now that my award acceptance speech is out of the way – takes a bow ;) – I will get to the real root of this Author’s Interruption.

The Blood Moon is OVER! Finally, am I right, folks?

(did you like how the twist ending was not really a twist at all because Harry has been consistently suicidal the whole time? Really pulled out a shocker from this ol’ bag of mine.)

But, don’t lose hope with the very abrupt DEATH ending (lol spoilers) of our main character, for it’s not completely over yet. Like all good things, The Boggart Series comes in a set of three. And we come to the final part of the trilogy really really soon where everything will hopefully be super happy and fine;

**_The Toll._ **

Just kidding. Gear up for more angst, like it could go any other way :P


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